


Take Your Carriage Clock and Shove It

by grassle



Series: The Belle and Sebastian Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 66,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by various prompts/people asking for fic in which former university sweethearts Sherlock and Sebastian rekindle their relationship after meeting up again in <em>The Blind Banker</em>…  </p><p>Sherbastian? SebLock? Dunno. High society (literally; think homemade E in NW3) crimefighting. A bit like <em>Hart to Hart</em> but with less butler and more cock. Oh, and there's a cat. </p><p>Don't get the arse about geographical, historical, medical or procedural inaccuracies. Seriously. Don't. Cheers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Take Your Carriage Clock and Shove It**

‘Heard it on the grapevine’ was something Sherlock’s father might have said. His grandfather, product of a less politically correct age, would have spoken about ‘jungle drums,’ and his grandmother, if feeling whimsical, would have said, ‘the noise runs that…’ as she translated directly from her mother tongue.

 Strange to hear things on a _grapevine_ in this day and age, then, when there was an entire technology of communication. Electronic, virtual means which might create barriers between people – thank God – but also kept them in contact.

 Maybe contact wasn’t the correct word, mused Sherlock, staring narrow-eyed at the screen of John’s laptop. ‘Aware’ was probably a better choice. He reread the e-mail he’d received early that morning – sent even earlier (insomnia? More worried than he seemed?) – containing the parachronistic expression. It had been sent to his old address – another anachronism – and forwarded to the one for the Science of Deduction site via a simple filter.

 ‘Heard on the grapevine you were a consulting detective.’ Really? But of course, it was logical Sebastian might have _heard_ of Sherlock’s doings. He maintained networks – school, university, professional – made sure he knew the right people, things, trends, the next thing. And now he wanted Sherlock’s help. Help he knew Sherlock would have been more than capable of providing, whatever was going on at the bank, even without the title of ‘consulting detective.’

 And if Sebastian wanted to contact him, a simple name search would have brought him to Sherlock’s Web site, concrete details of Sherlock’s consulting detective work _and_ an up-to-date e-mail address. And someone so techno-savvy as well. Tut-tut, Sebastian. Slipping, are we? Not very likely.

 Conclusion: Sebastian knew exactly what Sherlock was and how to get in touch with him, but didn’t want Sherlock to know he knew.

 Interesting, because reverse the names and the same was true. Sherlock had kept an eye, a private eye, he smirked, on Sebastian over the intervening years. Sebastian was still with Shad Sanderson. Of course. An investment banker. Naturally. Director of the trading floor within five years. Bang on schedule then. Bully for him. _White Collar Boy._

Smart, intelligent even, Sebastian wasn’t Sherlock’s intellectual equal, of course. He did know how things worked, though. Always had. Must be a fairly newish family thing: his stockbroker father, who’d worked in the New York exchange and – horror of horrors – married an American had not only ridden out the 1983 end to the Stock Exchange’s fixed commissions but adapted to its 1986 post-Big Bang deregulation, to manage an investment bank. Unlike Sebastian’s fallen-by-the-wayside late-start, long-lunch, early-finish merchant banker grandfather.

 Sebastian was good-looking, Sherlock supposed, if one liked that oh-so-Eton floppy-fringed look. Sherlock gave into sentiment at this point and dug out the cache of photos he kept hidden more securely than anything else. Wouldn’t do to have it unearthed during a drugs bust, or for John to come across it while cleaning. He traced with a finger the face of the straighter-haired of the two young twentysomethings in the corner of the booth. A quick glance might show a group of ex-public school university students in a pub. A closer look would reveal a bored Sherlock, trying not to be too openly disdainful of the herd, sitting next to someone dressed similarly to the crowd, but with a wicked gleam in his mid-blue eyes and a sardonic twist to his mouth.

Had life and responsibility dimmed that light and pasted a false smile on that mouth? Oh fuck it. What was the point. Sherlock shoved the photos back, determining, as ever, to burn the box soon. Not quite yet though. He could remember the pub, the evening, the day after he’d met Sebastian, and Sebastian’s dismissal of someone who’d stopped by to talk to someone in their group, meaning someone from their college, as ‘most likely to have a Radiohead poster.’ 

He’d infuriated Sherlock by being unable to explain why he’d thought that (quite correctly), just saying it was something about the bloke. Sherlock pointed out all the ‘things’, one after another, from the shoes to his choice of drink, right to the way his jacket was incorrectly buttoned. He threw in the bloke’s Division, subject and career ambitions for good measure, in his irritation. Sebastian was impressed, he recalled, although he hadn’t said so, of course – never did – as it had saved him time in slotting the bloke accordingly into the ‘to be ignored’ or ‘to be used’ binary.

When Sherlock correctly predicted the guy would rejoin them with a drink identical to Bill’s after going to the bar, Sebastian clapped his hands together and dropped one onto Sherlock’s leg, stroking and squeezing, confusing. He laughed harder when Sherlock pointed out that it seemed Bill was otherwise engaged; poor Sebastian would have to do without his help in discrete maths, or undo a few shirt buttons to get his attention, like Chessy had. Sebastian had grinned again, saying it looked like he’d have to make do with Sherlock’s help in that case. Sherlock wasn’t studying maths, of course, but it was one of the components of his course this year, and he found it easy enough.

 “Why should I?” he’d challenged. “What’s in it for me?”

 “Packet of crisps?” Sebastian had offered and amazingly got off his arse to fetch some and lob one over. “Plenty more where that came from.”

Sherlock pushed the souvenirs back along with the photos. He would burn them. He would. Just – not now. Not when John was due back. Sherlock figured the high ground was not even turning down the case, whatever it was – if it was – but ignoring the e-mail. How rude. But he hadn’t reckoned on John’s finances, or lack thereof. _Force majeure._ Not his decision: “I need to go to the bank.”

 _On my way_. _SH_ , he texted. To Sebastian’s phone. He knew the number. If John found him silent and blank on the ride over to Bishopsgate and as they entered the bank, he said nothing. Sherlock had wondered what it would be like, seeing Sebastian again. It was…amazingly like the first time, entering his den, his lair late one evening, only this time not to complain about the noise and the smell of smoke, both contravening college rules…

 

  
A voice called out, “it’s open,” and Sherlock pushed open the door to the small living area to see Sebastian Wilkes and another bloke and a girl he recognised. (Smoke. Drinks. Music. Striving.)

“Coming in?” Sebastian. (Lounging. Expansive. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Fringe flopping into squinting eyes.) Did he even know who Sherlock was? He poured him a drink and held it out, at any rate. For some reason Sherlock entered, closed the door behind him, crossed the room and plonked down next to Tilly – yes, that was the name she went by. He took the drink and sat watching, fascinated, trying to take in all the details of the room, the furnishings and the interaction.

Rupert, that was the bloke’s name. (Minor public school. Look at the shoes.) Tilly (blonde, not naturally that shade though, had slept with Rupert and heavily petted with Sebastian. Had a boyfriend in London as well.) Didn’t need deducing: she screamed her affairs loud in Hall.

They tried to ‘draw him out.’ But he couldn’t work out why he’d been asked in, particularly as his host was trying to wrangle a threesome. This had gone on long enough. Head swimming, eyes rolling, tongue thickened, Sherlock said, “She won’t fuck two men at the same time. Same evening, maybe, but that’s another matter. And he won’t fuck you without the buffer of a woman present. Plus neither of them is anywhere near drunk enough, and this occasion isn’t special enough to warrant it. On May Day, perhaps?”

Pashmina ruffling and wrapping, the ends whipping him, a substitute for a glove in another age, or a hand? name calling, threats, boots and lace-ups stomping out. Door slamming. Sebastian laughing.

“You owe me, buddy,” he said, when he’d hiccupped to a stop.

“How much?” Sherlock wondered, confused.

“Not _money_ , you…” More laughter, unable to continue.

“Why are you so amused?” Sherlock had been wondering for a while.

“Don’t you get the giggles when you do weed?”

(Weed. Dope. Pot. Oh, secondhand smoke _._ ) He’d never tried. No one at school had offered him any. He didn’t move in those circles. Obviously. So, silence then.

“Here.” His host lit up, held it out. Seemed rude not to take it. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. What kind of name is that?”

“I don’t know, _Sebastian_.” For some reason, that struck them both as funny.

“I’ve seen you around, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t mention they lived on the same Staircase, ate in the same Hall and college café – Sherlock refused to call it a restaurant or use its ‘quirky’ name –  drank in the same bar, frequented the same JCR... “Oh, yes?”

“When you’re off to fencing. Tighty whities, whatever they call ’em. Classy sexy. Like Steed.”

“Who?” Sherlock didn’t bother decoding the first part.

“Mate! Haven’t you ever seen _The Avengers_?”

He rummaged around and produced a VHS of an old-looking TV series. The man on the cover, English gent, waistcoat, brolly – Sherlock felt a little Big Brother and must have looked ill, because with a, “here,” Sebastian forced another drink on him. When Sherlock looked up, the video was playing, and it was camp and too much, and that night had catalogued six new experiences. Not just the drink and the weed and so-bad-it’s-good telly, but the complete cliché of the munchies and crap sugary food, and sloppy kisses, and even sloppier handjobs. He left when Sebastian fell asleep or unconscious. Sherlock put him in the recovery position and spread a throw thing over him.

Another time, another…office.

“How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?”

(Hmm, uncertainty over numbers from someone who spent his life with them, made a fortune from them. Again the old-fashioned turn of phrase.) Sherlock filed that away to puzzle out later, and at the same time he pushed down the memory of the occasion, eight years ago. The fucking organic chemistry research prizegiving ceremony at the reunion. _It Could Have Been a Brilliant Career._ Had it been Sebastian’s unexpected reappearance somewhere he’d no reason to be after their…separation that made him desist, not continue his probationer research studentship into a DPhil? _The Magic of a Kind Word_. No, credit where credit was due; that’d probably been the drugs.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Sebastian. Had haircut today. (Very clipped at the back and sides. Tiny stray hairs. Couldn’t lose the flop completely. Well, how else would people know which school he’d been to? Side parting. New thing. Older looking.) New suit which made the most of his blue eyes. (Not used to it. Buttoning, unbuttoning. Seemed…tight. Gained weight since being fitted? Stress or comfort eating lately? Problems? Asked tailor to make it smaller – incentive to fight pre-middle-aged spread?) Carefully chosen silk square. New watch. (Little interest taken in it once novelty wore off. Date wrong.) Vintage cufflinks. (Rarely worn. Gold oval discs. Grandfather’s.) 

Conclusion: he thought Sherlock would come. 

Sherlock smiled. He had on his usual coat and scarf and gloves. Hadn’t even polished his shoes, let alone worn newish ones.

“Grab a pew.”

Oh for God’s sake. Why not, “Sit ye down, gents?” (Old fogey routine. Trying to appear senior? Distanced? Past it?)

“We’re all sorted here, thanks.”

And now we have youth speak. (Schizoid. Unsure.) Sherlock was aware his gaze was fixed on Sebastian. Well. Couldn’t be too cautious. Never underestimate the floppy fringe. He was also aware he was showing off. Doing “that thing;” yes, thank you, Sebastian. It was instinctive, childlike behaviour, wanting admiration for a skill. Sebastian wouldn’t be flinging any bouquets. Never had. No matter how hard Sherlock had tried, to impress. No, “amazings” or “fantastics.” Laughter, amusement, yes. Tell him who’d win the JCR elections and what new and even more pathetic names they’d give to their posts and he’d throw his head back and laugh. He’d also tried to start a betting pool on next year’s. Hadn’t gone down well. 

“We hated him.”

Sherlock felt a pang at the choice of word. He’d used to say that when… No. Not now. Think. (Trying to whitewash history? Our history? That glance at John – oh for fuck’s sake, it’s a test!) Sebastian smiled more as John laughed, enjoying Sherlock’s discomfort. (He sees John’s not a threat. Not a…rival? Well well.)

Sherlock wanted to think Sebastian had grown ruthless, but he’d always been. (Grown more.) He wanted to smirk: their exchange system had worked well. If he’d learnt to charm people using Sebastian as a model, Sebastian had sharpened his observation skills and cruelty via Sherlock.

“…this freak would know who you’d been shagging the previous night.”

“I simply observed.” He hated that he’d joined in here, but at least his tone was flat and even. There was much more he could have added, such as, it was for your own good. Chlamydia and herpes simplex and, oh God, issues were nasty things: easy to see who’d got what. Easy to snoop through bags and even rooms for evidence. The look in Sebastian’s eye told him yes, he’d known it was pre-emptive strikes and after-the-fact attempts to kill his interest in people. Return them to their places. A place not occupied by Sherlock.

”Go on. Enlighten me…”

_No thanks. I won’t forfeit by falling into a trap, if it’s all the same. I’ll see you and I’ll raise you…_

“I was chatting to your secretary outside. She told me.”

And it was almost worth everything that had been and gone to see the fall of Sebastian’s face and John’s puzzled look. Didn’t they understand about holding back reserves for a bigger battle? Either of them – a financial expert and a soldier? _Pathetic._ Sebastian had the grace to laugh, acknowledge the rout.

And there was a puzzle, a mystery, and it was glorious. Sherlock’s first thought was it was a message: a message sprayed by Sebastian, to have him come over. No; CCTV would make that impossible. He watched Sebastian watch him work, watch him think. He’d always liked that…

 

Rugger shirt, sweater knotted around his neck – until Sherlock had set it alight with a careless blast from the lit gas tap – at a corner of his lab table, his maths books/quiet place to study the excuse, watching him work late at night, his gaze following him as he poured and mixed, coming up behind him as he peered down the microscope, biting his neck. Above the collar. Sherlock had tried to figure out what turned Sebastian on so much about the lab. The smell of chemicals? The jars of colours? Of course it was far more plebeian – his first ‘experience’ had been in his school chem. lab. Dull.

Lips parted, eyes shining, listening to Sherlock’s mile-a-minute exposition in the JCR as he flayed the problem bare, dissected it for them. Sherlock remembered the occasion, fairly early into the term: him working out who had made the hilarious posters using their college students to characterise their various school, using Sebastian and him as two of the examples, captioned POSH and CLEVER. 

“Come on! You can’t _know_!” objected Chessy.

“But I do. Just as I know Bill was out with Sadie this afternoon. Not for the first time.”

“But Bill and I –”

“Yes. Sorry and all that.”

“How do you know?”

“Check out their scent. They both reek of the same one.”

“That could be coincidence! What if they were shopping together for...a, a present for me?”

“No; doesn’t work. Look at those tiny round discolorations on her sheepskin boots and his suede jacket – both revolting items of clothing. Those are chemical stains they received while sitting close together on the bench outside that revolting cosmetics shop in town where they were repeatedly hit by the noisome bubbles the shop pumps put. Bubbles which burst on them as they were sitting close enough to kiss. Oh. She’s gone.”

“Mate.” Sebastian sat down next to him. “You shouldn’t be giving it away.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You should capitalise on those assets. What say I handle that side of things, eh?” And he did, setting Sherlock up as a consultant. We Rule The School.

Sebastian nosed out needs, moved in on weaknesses. Made things work for him. “Potential client alert,” he’d whispered, nudging Sherlock into explaining to Lulu how it was obvious her fiancé at St Andrews was cheating on her. And that Sebastian would step in as her date for the big wedding once she’d broken it off. And make up the numbers at the ski party, chalet being booked and all. 

He’d taken Sherlock’s black mood, then and on other occasions, in good part, acknowledging with a bullet-proof shrug the epithets blasted over him. The ‘fog’ didn’t paralyse him: once when Sherlock was particularly bad, not leaving his room for days, Sebastian had announced they needed to get out of the pressure-cooker town for a weekend, get some proper air, and he’d wrangled Sherlock into the shower, swiped at him with a towel, and stood over him until he’d dressed. He’d ignored all Sherlock’s protests of, “I hate fresh air,” laughing at his face when he realised ‘proper air’ for Sebastian was London. And shopping. And clubbing. And a meeting with a futures trader.

 

“Sherlock must be getting a mite warm with all that dancing about. Doesn’t he want to take his scarf and gloves off, at least?”

Yes, please talk about me as if I’m not here. Deep in his movements about the floor, he didn’t even spare Sebastian and John a glance. Wanted to though. To see if Sebastian was smirking, knowing Sherlock had a sensitive neck, once which blushed pink easily. One which was now covered by the scarf he’d stolen from its owner when Sebastian had come to that awful prizegiving to ‘surprise’ him. He didn’t want to give Sebastian the chance to touch his hands either. He might stroke the palm with a hidden little finger. Or see the marks on his wrists and arms. At the very least, he’d notice Sherlock’s watch, Sebastian’s graduation present, regifted to him, never parted with, not even when he’d needed cash. 

He looked out of the corners of his eye at Sebastian’s office as he passed, flouncing out with a name of the man they needed to speak to. He didn’t say good-bye, and although the man was one of the traders, he didn’t ask his boss about him. Obviously. Wouldn’t give Sebastian the satisfaction. Because the ‘we all hated him’ comment was resurfacing. That choice of words had been designed to needle.

 

“I know, you _hate_ me,” had been Sherlock’s usual world-weary wrap-up, getting it in before they could, when he’d pulled off a particularly brilliant feat of deducing, shattered illusions or hopes and left astonishment or resentment in his wake. The catchphrase had started the time he’d explained that Honor and George were seeing each other on the sly; the fact that Honor had sprained her ankle in Addison’s Walk proves it – sorry Allegra; he’ll only break up with you when he’s sure of her. Sherlock had said the phrase along with her and appropriated it. Hate covered a big range.

“I hate you!” Sebastian, seeking him out and pinning him down after Sherlock had breezed in on him and James that time, ruining Sebastian’s chances and the evening. “Bloody hate you!” as he bit Sherlock’s neck with the fury of being cockblocked. Again. _Shoot the Sexual Athlete_. 

And in his weaker moods, more vulnerable moments over his behaviour, their game-playing, his compulsive rifling through Sebastian’s stuff, “You must hate me.” Eliciting a, “Not all the time,” or “You have your moments,” or a tenderly exasperated, “For fuck’s sake knock it off, Belle,” depending on circumstances.

 

Sherlock didn’t pretty himself up for later, for meeting Sebastian again that evening. (Clients – haircut and new suits for them not me?) Took John with him again, although there was no need, strictly speaking. Loved throwing corporate Sebastian off his game. _Take Your Carriage Clock and…_ He felt John’s stare on him as he blurted out that an employee, a possible friend had been murdered, drawing the word out almost lovingly. He relished throwing out the Scotland Yard line. As Sebastian swept them along with him (to the loo? Really!) he got a warm blast from the past: ruining another of Sebastian’s ‘attempted encounters’. One he’d surely set up to see if Sherlock could sniff it out and make it crash.

He could see Sebastian thought so too. But this wasn’t just a game. The case went beyond that. How could Sebastian think otherwise? “Seb!”

“I hired you to do a job. Don’t get sidetracked.” And flounce. That round to him then.

“…heartless bastards.”

Not heartless. _Ruthless._


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Actually, maybe John’s descriptor was more accurate. Sherlock had certainly thought so at the time, when Sebastian refused to stay on for another year so he’d keep pace with Sherlock’s longer degree.

“There’s no point doing a post-grad, and not now, and not here,” he said flatly. “Besides, I’ve been here four bloody years already.”

Sebastian had repeated the first year. Most unusual, due to some sort of breakdown. People made air quotes when they gossiped about it, and also made sniff gestures, moving their nose from side to side as they did so.

“And it’s about time to cut the apron strings.”

“What?”

“For you to get out under your own steam. Get out of the shadow. Cut the cord.”

“Cut the cliché, you mean,” Sherlock sneered, not wanting to deconstruct the mixed metaphors, be assaulted with the images the words evoked. 

He hadn’t hated the third year so much. Living out, in the house Sebastian had found, with the housemates he’d chosen. Two girls, from the ex-poly for balance and to pretty things up, one an Hon, and Bill, MP in the making, following in his father’s footsteps. _A Century of Fakers._ Mycroft had been most impressed at the company his brother was keeping. Insisted on driving him there of course for the start of the year, checking things out. Sherlock had deliberately gone up before Noughth week, to an empty house, but that didn’t stop Mycroft sniffing out details, of course.

Or counting the number of rooms – yes, Sherlock had his own. As if Sebastian would have shared. They weren’t official or anything. Or anything, at all, it transpired. He was practically already on the trading floor, already in his Docklands flat before Finals, even, ready to move on, ripe for the next stage, the world of uni as much behind him as school was.

“I’ll pop back from time to time. And you must come up when I’m settled. I’ll be having a housewarming anyway.” 

“I won’t be there.” 

He could have been. Could have carried things on, as Sebastian wanted, light, airy, not Sherlock needing a ballast, both the traditional and the electrical. Needing, fuck it, grounding. Not an audience – though that would be nice – or a star to hitch his more eccentric wagon to, no matter what anyone said. Needing…a friend. That acceptance and tolerance Sebastian extended. That ease, that lightness, that surety. It was unlike Mycroft and Mother and Father. No point scoring, with Seb. No withholding of affection for the myriad slights and hurts relationships were heir to. No… 

The fourth year was hell. Time and events convinced him Sebastian was right to stay away from him. He’d got what he deserved. There was something wrong with him. Must be. _Is It Wicked Not to Care?_ If Seb didn’t, he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t, despite trying with V– He’d got what he deserved there too.

_Eddie had company_ , Sherlock texted as he and John were in a cab back to Baker Street from the West Kensington library the next morning. He added a link to the article about Brian Lukis and sent it to Sebastian, signed _SH_. Well, the man was paying for their services; he’d the right to be kept informed. No reply. He wasn’t really expecting one. Sherlock shut down his mind to a narrow focus and followed the trail, hitting the streets, using his network, immersing himself. No; no use. He had to get more information on Van Coon and that meant returning to the bank.

“Sherlock Holmes. Want to try ruining another meal?” Sebastian. Catching up with him near the door, Sherlock with his hands full and nose buried in the printed pages he’d been given, Sebastian in another newish suit and tie (he thought I was coming?) backslapping and manhandling a small group of Asians (oh. Clients.) “Coming for lunch?”

“What, you be seen socialising with an employee? Not quite the done thing, is it? And I’m not really dressed for it.” He showed off a length of denim-clad leg. He’d worn jeans deliberately, of course. And no tie. Never, if he could help it.

“Old friend from university,” he heard Sebastian explain to his clients. 

“One who had an operation to cut the cord. To remove the shadow. Well, I’d better be getting back to work, give the bank its money’s worth. I’m actually planning to stop by an Italian on Shaftesbury Avenue. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He gave his tightest smile, and with a sharp nod he swept out. Wasn’t surprised to get a text within five minutes. This time his smile was broader. And then there wasn’t time for anything except the case, the chase, the game. The puzzle. And the danger, and the delight. Real gun this time. 

_Never two without three as they say. A Chinese antiquities expert was killed in front of John and me due to EVC’s smuggling on his business trips. SH._ Sherlock texted Sebastian. He had a reply within minutes. _Any point me asking you to stand down? This sounds horrific. Seb._ But there was no time to smirk at having rattled his opponent, or getting him to sign his nickname, not when there was a crime organisation to bring down, huh, _Wrapped Up in Books_ , and John was…and John to rescue and Sebastian to needle again.

He’d asked John to go and deal with that side of things, saying he needed to finish up the loose ends with Van Coon’s secretary. Which he did, her screams at discovering the value of her trinket bringing John and Sebastian out of the latter’s office. Sherlock smiled over at him as he waited for John and clapped him on the back, pulling him along. Home to breakfast. They hadn’t even had dinner yet. Last night, what with the kidnapping and attempted murder, it had slipped their minds.

Slow! Sherlock cursed himself for his slip. He’d grabbed up the cheque when John left it on the mantelpiece as he took a shower before work, and signed his name on the back of that and the other. Had a quick look at Sebastian’s signature. Nothing more. Well, took out his cache once the flat was empty. He was aware of John’s return from work and trudge up to bed, pausing only to throw a blanket over him on the sofa.

Then waking, he suddenly leapt up and searched for the envelope the cheque must have come in. He found it – John and his recycling piles – and slit it flat to read the inside. What he saw made him grin. He showered, dressed with care, and caught a cab to Shad Sanderson, uncaring of the late hour. 

‘“ _Step Into My Office, Baby_ ’?” he queried, watching Sebastian standing smoking at the window. He caught the sweetish scent. “You haven’t changed.”

“Sure about that?”

“Of course. I can even tell which of your employees you’re currently shagging. The good-looking one you bought a shirt for.”

“Patrick? I had to. Ghastly poly blends he wore – all the static made my hair look mad.”

Sherlock looked away, bit back a grin.

“So, come to rip the cheque up in my face?”

Sherlock waited for Sebastian to turn and approach him before replying. “Of course not. I’ve given it to John. Just like the first one.”

He didn’t quite expect Sebastian to laugh, but he did. 

“Have you? Changed?” Sebastian indicated his ‘cigarette’ and Sherlock just looked at it and Sebastian. He didn’t know what to reply to that either, and that wasn’t good. What was even less good was seeing Sebastian inhale a huge lungful before grabbing Sherlock round the neck and sharing the blast with him. Or was it? He pulled free. 

“What was I supposed to do with the money? Give you a blowjob for it?”

Sebastian shrugged and approached to sit in his chair. (Power position. Desk as shield.) “When have I ever refused one?”

“Fuck off, _Sebastian_.”

“Because of John? Look me in the eye and tell me he knows you’re here.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled up at one side. He didn’t think he was smiling. He squirmed into the space between the man and the desk and dropped to his knees. “I suppose I do owe you,” he murmured, unzipping Sebastian’s flies slowly, letting his fringe fall into his eyes as he bent his head, keeping his eyes on Sebastian’s. “That was a huge amount of cash when I would have done it for nothing. I‘d better give satisfaction, give value for money.”

It went on for a heartbeat longer than he’d thought it would before Sebastian zipped his flies up and pushed his chair backwards.

“Fuck, Belle, don’t. _Jesus._ Just –”

But he didn’t smirk at his victory, at having made Seb say his pet name for him, because he didn’t feel he’d won anything. He perched on the edge of the desk and waited.

Eventually Seb spoke. “Truce? The offer’s still open.”

“What?”

“Lunch, remember?”

“ _Lunch?_ But it’s late.”

“How irritated you used to get when people stated the obvious. Dinner, then?”

“Without sex? You have changed, Sebastian.” He grinned, laughed even.

“So’ve you, Sherlock.” Seb laughed in turn, and Sherlock bent forward to take the last draw on his joint from Seb’s hand before Seb crushed it out. “Come on.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

It turned out to be supper, in a pokey little self-service place off the Strand selling baked potatoes with a variety of strange fillings to students. They got stared at.

“They think we’re old students, feeling nostalgic,” said Sherlock, lipreading. “Not totally wrong. Reminds you of that awful snack bar off the High late at night, doesn’t it.”

“ _Push Barman to Open Old Wounds_ ,” replied Seb. “Want some cold sore with yours?”

“Piss off! Is it my fault I’d never had it before and didn’t know what it was called?” That still rankled. “So, do we have a catching-up conversation?” He curled his lip.

“Do you want one?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock stuck his plastic fork into Seb’s garlic mushroom mess. Foul.

“I’d like to hear about the investigation. Why, I mean how… Eddie’s dead. God. It’s only just sinking in, and you said there were more… I’ve been reading what was in the papers, but could you tell me the rest? Tell me properly?”

It took over an hour. Seb was quiet for a moment, then asked about other cases, seeming not to realise he’d revealed knowledge of Sherlock’s Web site. That took a while too. 

“And now you’re living with –”

“Flatsharing, yes. We only met recently.” He didn’t know why he added that.

“Sometimes things just click, don‘t they.”

Like when someone you had your first kiss and handjob with the day before just barges into your room and insists you come out with him to alleviate the crushing boredom of the pub with friends, then rubs your thigh for most of the evening, snogs you on an illegally climbed chapel tower rooftop on the way home and shows you what a blowjob is. “Umm,” agreed Sherlock. “He was invalided out of the forces. Needed a place to stay.” He shrugged.

“Army? Like –”

“Keir the OTT –”

“OTC guy!”

“No; John’s normal. Oh Christ. Remember the Secret Santa exchange in the JCR and you got his name? You gave him an empty box? And when he was examining it, brow ridge creased, you told him it –”

“Was an Action Man deserter! Oh what was I on. I even cut a hole in the box!”

“And the wrapping. Wasn’t there a bit of rope and –”

But they were both laughing too much to go on. 

“Still like walking?” How could Sherlock have forgotten Seb’s abrupt changes of topic. He nodded, having no idea what was coming. A mystery in the hills, where Seb no doubt had a country estate, which needed solving? An incident at the bank’s Swiss headquarters in the mountains?

“I’ll walk you home. Want a hot chocolate for the journey?”

Oh. “If you’re having one.” It paid to be cautious, with Seb.

“Swaddled sufficiently? Sure you don’t need a woolly hat?” asked Seb, flicking at Sherlock’s scarf as they set off into the chill.

“Piss off,” said Sherlock with no venom to it. Seb was wrapped in an overcoat, probably just as expensive as his, but he had no scarf and was gloveless. Hence the hot drink, presumably. (A more modern version of a hot stone to hold? Not used to being out. Cabs. Hasn’t he a car?)

London was Seb’s as much as it was Sherlock’s, in a different way. _Mornington Crescent. Next to the broker…_ Seb passed on some scurrilous gossip about a hedge funder even Sherlock had heard of. He took Sherlock’s refusal of a swift half en route with a nod and passed him a tenner to tip Jez and Dazzle from Raz’s crew. He handed over his drink to them as well. They reached 221.

“This is me. How will you get home?”

“Oh, cab from along there. Nice place.”

Sherlock didn’t mention he was renting a flat, didn’t own the building. He briefly wondered about introducing Seb to his landlady.

“Goodnight kiss?” Seb had his usual half smile, his breath streaming in the cold air. 

“You paid for supper. I owe you. Yes. Fine.”

Seb didn’t mean a half-joking peck on the cheek. Or if he did, it didn’t stay like that. It was different, couldn’t not be after so long. Cold skin, noses, lips. Faces gone fleshier. Seb gone softer around the middle. Sherlock cautiously explored, probing the soft bed of Seb’s tongue, the edge of his teeth, the inside of his cheek. Making it familiar. He pushed his tongue inside and with a hard sweep encouraged Seb to suck on it. Seb pushed Sherlock against the door, cradling him between his thighs. The cold night receded as warmth spread from where they touched, and Sherlock opened his legs wider. One of them deepened the kiss, both of them responsive, fitting together, tasting…not unknown. Oh, such _appetence_. Still. Or again. Sherlock tightened his fingers on Seb’s waist and curled his other hand into his hair. He closed his eyes, lost in memories. Seb’s palms curved around Sherlock’s face.

It had to end, the pressure, the moment, and Seb pulled away. Sherlock looked and saw interest, welcome and desire flaring to life in Seb’s eyes. He knew what would be coming, just didn’t know what form it would take. Wasn’t –

“Seb, here’s not…”

“Of course it’s not. Wouldn’t be. Any more than my place would be. But there is a corporate flat. Which wouldn’t be either. So stupid to mention it. Makes me lose a lot of points. If we were keeping score. God. Sorry. I’ll go.” 

Sherlock watched as Seb took a few paces. He turned and came back. “If it’s ever… _not_ not, would you call? I’d…wait.”

“No. I wouldn’t call. I prefer to text.” 

Seb’s smile was blinding, and he clapped his hands in glee before he turned and marched off.

“Hey.” Sherlock’s soft call had Seb spinning around. “You never got your teeth fixed.” He’d almost cut his tongue just then on one of those sharp fangs.

Seb grabbed the metal railing for support as he folded in half laughing. “I didn’t make some of my best decisions on coke. Or when fuelled by ambition. And for the latter I am most profoundly sorry. I hope you know that.”

Sherlock stared, through the cold, through the night, into the heart of things. He nodded. “You won the costume prize though.” One of Sherlock’s hidden photos was Sebastian the vamp vampire at the fancy dress party, having made Sherlock take a rasp to his teeth to get them pointed enough. “And it wasn't even Halloween.”

“Still got the trophy. I’ll show you sometime. So, you don’t even smoke anymore?” By the offhand way Seb asked, Sherlock knew he’d been wanting to bring this up. He shook his head. It was better that way. With his addictive personality. He flicked through his history of substance use, seeing a series of freeze frames of the weed he and Sebastian enjoyed, the E everyone did, the coke he liked to loosen his inhibitions and help him deal with social events, the more and more coke, the –

He folded his arms as he shook his head again, a tight, aching gesture, one Seb read and acted on: he left. Sherlock didn’t wait, didn’t watch, just went in. Didn’t think about what might have been, about inviting Seb in, or going to his place, or the flat he’d mentioned. No point.

He didn’t call, of course. Didn’t text first. Seb texted him, once after seeing the news of the central London explosion, once commenting on all the strange messages on the Science of Deduction, then again after the second explosion, wondering if that was anything to do with him. Sherlock replied, breezy comments: _Forward's the only way to go._ And asking Seb if he remembered the supplementary trading floor hand signals they’d devised one evening like the buy, sell, stop and cancel ones, born out of their desire to communicate across noisy pubs and clubs, and did Seb ever use any of them? John asked him what he was snorting over. It was Seb’s film of himself doing their ‘this is hell on wheels – a tenner if you get me out of it’ signal. That he claimed to use a lot at work.

And then in the wake of the Dagenham Dock debacle Sebastian came to him.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

“Bloody Christ, Belle. Not even during Millennium Week – AKA Stay Drunk for a Week Week – did you look this wasted.”

That and the bump against his hospital bed pushed Sherlock awake or conscious. Alert, anyway. His first slight was metallic silver and electric blue, floating, bobbing, dipping, about head height. It came closer.

‘“It’s a boy,’” he read dry-mouthed from the helium balloon Seb held on a string. 

“Well you are.” Seb sat next to him. “Or were last time I looked. Or something you want to tell me? The real reason you’re in here?” He was pale, despite the jokes. Sherlock tried to wheeze out a laugh. It was difficult with squashed ribs and massive contusions. 

“Are you being derivative?” he managed, and Seb smiled as he pushed a straw through a carton of drink, went to hand it to him, and ended up holding it to his mouth as he awkwardly cradled his head in his other hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the crap nursing care. “Thanks,” he said after he’d drained it. “My second favourite.”

“Umm. I know. Best I could manage.”

“That and the balloon.”

“Not much choice downstairs.”

“There wouldn’t be, no.”

Sherlock threw back the covers and pushed his feet to the floor. He swayed as he got up.

“Woah, buddy. What –”

“Hate hospitals. I’m going.”

“Is…” Seb shrugged. 

Sherlock saw him looking around the room. (Checking for a saline drip? Monitors? A panic button? Something else?) A breath of icy wind buffeted him, knocked him back to the bed as he looked up at Sebastian. He saw he had an official pass clipped to his collar. When he could speak normally, his words came out slowly.

“How did you get in? I’m not allowed visitors.”

“Oh? I didn’t know. I simply went to the desk, said, ‘Mr Holmes,’ and they ushered me in.”

“Just like that?” Sherlock was inching away, a cold hardness taking up space inside.

“They said I was early. I replied I do like to be punctual. Well, circs permitting, of course.”

“ _Mr Holmes._ Jesus. They think you’re my brother.”

“What? Jabba The Can’t Pass Pizza Hut? Have I got that fat?” Seb looked appalled.

“He’s…thinner now,” wheezed Sherlock, coughing as he tried to stop laughing.

“Should bloody hope so. Oh yes, they asked for ID. I showed my bank security pass. It seemed to do.”

He held it out, and Sherlock shook with more held-in laughter as he looked at the bland photo of a business-suited gent. He gasped with the effort.

“Erm…” The uniform at the door put his head into the room. Sherlock waved him away.

“Not many rooms have personal guards,” Seb commented.

“Not many patients have taken down a gang of Chechnyan traffickers.”

“Thought they were Chinese smugglers.”

“That was the last lot, Sebastian. Do keep up.” Sherlock was moving, scoping out the room, preparing his exit.

“Oh, I’ll get the official Sherlock Holmes sticker book, shall I? Get really informed? Look, mate, are you sure you should be leaving?”

“Yes of course. Oh. I haven’t been sectioned, if that’s what you think. Dull.”

“Maybe you bloody should be, thinking of going anywhere in those awful jim jams.” Seb indicated Sherlock’s hospital-issue pyjamas.

“Oh. Yes. Well, could –”

“Erm, no, actually. No. I’m not swapping clothes with you and waiting here for your enemies to ninja in and assassinate you. Me. Fat lot of help PC Plod out there would be, sitting trying to work his new mobile phone.” Seb imitated the rather bovine man poking at buttons, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“I was merely going to ask if you’d be so kind as to purchase me an outfit from the gift shop, for which I’ll refund you, of course.”

“Where do you think you are, the Walserhorf in bloody Klosters? It’s an NHS hospital kiosk! Not much apart from choc bars and magazines with orange-skinned girls showing their tits and bits on the covers. And balloons. And I’m not stealing you a nurse’s uniform either.” He pointed a warning finger at Sherlock, who was giggling now. “Seems to me this is a job for Dr John Watson. What have you done with him? Released him back into the wild?”

Sherlock noted the title. Remembered he’d never told Sebastian John was a doctor. 

“Could have done with your own tame soldier, if you’re under some sort of threat too.”

“ _Death_ threat,” Sherlock corrected, a little proudly. “He’s been sent to Scotland.”

“Poor sod. Piss someone off, did he?”

“For his own safety, you knob.”

“Hmm. And you were too sexy for all your clothes, never mind your shirt, on the way here, I suppose.”

“ _Colour my life with the chaos of trouble._ ”

“Here.” Sherlock stood still as Seb slipped off his overcoat and dressed him in it. “You’ll have to manage with those slipper things. I’ll take you home if you’re determined to go. If they let you.”

That only merited a look. The officer let them pass, Seb walking slowly for Sherlock to lean on him. Lestrade wouldn’t, thought Sherlock. Hell, even Donovan wouldn’t. He informed them he wished to discharge himself, medical advice or not. Seb advised against signing the disclaimer releasing the hospital of all responsibility. He didn’t have to sign it to get out, apparently. 

“What about meds?” whispered Seb. 

“You can say the word. It’s just painkillers. Nothing I haven’t got.”

“Mr Holmes!”

“Yes?” replied both men, and Sherlock glared at Seb.

“This letter was left here for you to be given to you if you sign yourself out,” said the senior sister. She handed it over. 

Mycroft! A brief warning the head of the gang was still at large – for the time being – and probably targeting 221B. As much as Sherlock wanted to ignore the prissy, _I strongly advise you to forsake 221B for the time being, little brother dear_ , he knew it made sense. 

“Thank you,” said Sherlock to the woman when Seb stood on his foot. Sherlock’s personal effects held by the hospital included his overcoat. Seb retrieved his from Sherlock, pulled Sherlock’s free of the big bag and started to dress him in it. Sherlock shrugged him off and pulled out a scarf and gloves which he put on too. He took his wallet. And watch. Seb handed him a pair of shoes, then scrunched the bag up. He tied the balloon to Sherlock’s wrist.

“Sadly, no socks,” he noted. “Want to try your luck in the gift shop? Stop by the laundry while I keep cave?”

“Sod off,” replied Sherlock. “Biggles,” he added almost under his breath as the wind nearly blew off Seb’s scarf thrown loosely around his neck.

“Hey, someone wrapped up warm like Christopher Robin or Nanny Knows Best can’t critique. What?” Seb stopped as Sherlock made a grab for the low wall near the door once they were outside. “I’m not allowed to take the piss out of you anymore because a house fell on you? And yeah, always thought you were a bit of a wicked witch.” He slung Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders to help him towards the car park. 

“Trapped under a warehouse actually,” wheezed Sherlock. “Which was demolished with me in situ.” 

“I’ll be awed when I get home, if that’s all right. Hanging about at warehouses at the docks. How very Prohibition of you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does your ensemble, dude.” 

Aching, sore, in pain every time he breathed in or out, Sherlock grinned. Seb got out his key.

“Wait!” Sherlock made a grab for Seb’s hand.

“Oh, sorry. Did you want to press the button? Still like doing that?” asked Seb.

“Not that. Stop being so – I’m thinking of the risk. Does anyone know you came to see me?”

“Risk? As in a bomb?” Seb paused. “I wouldn’t worry. The car’s fitted with several security devices, ranging from engine immobilisers and an alarm system to a tracking device and advanced anti-hijack and…anti-tamper measures, shall we say. Anything comes near it, I get a live feed sent to my mobile.” He shrugged. “We all make enemies.”

He practically hefted Sherlock the last few yards to the car and helped him lie down in the back. He covered him with his overcoat and trapped the balloon under the seat.

“Seb, I can’t go home. For a while.” Sherlock hated how weak his voice sounded. “Can you take me to a hotel? Excuse me while I pass out for a few minutes.”

“You’re not in your ten o’clock lecture now, buddy.”

The noise and motion of the engine soothed Sherlock to sleep, and he woke when they stopped. He sat and surveyed the residential street and the semidetached house, the brick, the white paint, the railings enclosing it in a small garden.

“Not a hotel.”

Seb turned around. “Mine. You can stop here for a bit. As if a hotel would take you in those pjs, Arthur.”

“Hampstead?” Sherlock guessed, or remembered, looking at the narrow fenced-off garden down the middle of the street. He let Seb help him up the wide steps to the house, and he leant against one side of the porch while Seb opened the Tardis-blue front door.

“Umm. NW Twee herself. Well, here we are.”

He ushered Sherlock into a narrow hall. Huge Fauxdwardian palm just inside. More white wood, wooden floors, curved polished banister. Clean lines. No little groups of framed photos. No families of ornaments on spindly-legged tables. Seb must have understood.

“What were you expecting, Schizoriana? Yeah, I didn’t get Debs and Becca in. No vintage bird cages –”

“Filled with haemorrhoids of white LED balls that glow in the dark?”

“They called them freedom lamps, remember? Like all other lamps were in captivity?”

“I supposed it meant because they’d let the birds free to get the cages. And you kept saying how much you were into –”

“Irrumation! I rove irrumation!” Seb’s Japanese accent was as cod as ever. 

“And no one ever got the joke.” Sherlock made a grab for the banister to stay upright.

“God. You look exhausted, Belle. Bath and bed? I’ll help you.”

“If you want an eyeful, just say. No, yes, I mean, I suppose I could do with a hand. Help, I mean.”

Seb even gave him clean pyjamas and analgesics as he settled him in a spare room. He tied the balloon to the foot of the bed. Sherlock didn’t remember going to sleep, and he didn’t know how long he’d slept or what time it was, but he was jolted awake by another presence in his room. A strange presence. One which had him calling for help.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

“Seb!” Recalling possible danger, Sherlock’s second call was a soft hiss. “Come quickly!”

“’Sup?” Seb had obviously stuck his head through a jumper. It was on backwards.

“There’s a…thing. There! On the bed.”

The light snapped on. “Yeah, it’s a _cat_ , Sherlock? Christ, buddy. The idea of a recommended dosage was always a red rag to a bull with you, wasn’t it?” Seb sat down next to the…thing.

“But it’s…” Sherlock leant forwards to scrutinise the black shape with the knowing green eyes and fluffs of fur sticking out from the sides of its face, mirroring the shape of its whiskers. “Wearing a mask. And a bib,” he finished on a lame note. The way the black fur ended symmetrically just under its nose and the white shape continued to form a napkin on its chest did look odd, like the animal had a hood pulled down. It stared, unblinking. “You didn’t say.” He knew he sounded aggrieved.

“Oh, you must have missed the hoarding I had put up in Leicester Square. Or the full-page ad in the Times. It’s just a cat!”

“What’s its name?”

“I don’t know his _name,_ Sherlock.” He hated it when Seb used his, ‘I’m talking to a dickhead,’ tone. “He never told me, because cats _can’t talk_ , you see. But I call him Beamish. He just came in one day and comes and goes. He likes caviar.”

“Well, he’s…furry.” Sherlock slipped back down in the bed. “And your clothes are the wrong way round.” He’d noticed the stupid jogging trousers were backwards too.

“Next time you yell for me in the early hours, I’ll rush in starkers to do your bidding, shall I? God. I didn’t mean –”

“I need a mobile. And laptop,” Sherlock murmured, facedown, almost out of it, and when he awoke, he had both on the bedside table. Which allowed him to import his contacts from his online storage service and catch up. 

“Hey.” Seb stuck a head round the door and pushed back his fringe as Sherlock came back to bed from the bathroom. 

“Shouldn’t you –”

“Umm. Working from home today. Don’t get mad, but I got the doctor from work to come to give you a check-up. Just in case,” he finished, over the top of Sherlock’s, “I am fine!”

“In case you keel over while staying with me and your parents sue me unto the next generation. Yeah?” He took the glare for consent. “He’s a decent bloke. All yours, Paul.” He stepped back for a man about their age to enter the room. “Need me for anything?”

“No; I’m perfectly capable of coughing and dropping unaided, thank you.” Sherlock scowled. 

But at least it was over soon, and he poked around in Seb’s room with its oh what? dressing room! for clothes that fitted and didn’t look too hideous. Luckily they were nearly the same height, Seb the tiniest bit taller. He made his slow way downstairs and down another floor to the kitchen, where he stopped and clutched at the door handle for support as he pointed and wheezed, “An Aga. You’ve got an Aga. You’ve become an Aga Can! What happened to the Aga? Can’t!?”

“It was here when I got here.” Seb patted the range’s blue enamel, the…same colour as the front door, Sherlock judged.

“And you’ve got a treasure too!” Belatedly he interpreted the whirring sounds (vacuum cleaner – daily) he’d heard as he passed the room.

“See above.” Seb put some plates on the long kitchen’s huge, yes, stripped pine, table. “It was my grandparents’ place. Well. Whatever. Never mind.” He placed a bowl down. “Get a clean bill? Health cert? Fit for term start?”

“Didn’t your lackey report to you after?”

“Of course not.” Seb moved to pull out a chair for Sherlock. “I don’t know who you seem to think I am, but I’m not your jailor, or your keeper. I’m not…anything.”

Sherlock stared at him, looking into his eyes, but didn’t sit. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I have to watch for haematuria. I’ll run a lab test to check for micro.”

He turned away and explored. The room wasn’t as bad as it could have been. No bunches of drying herbs hanging from low Please Bang Head Here beams, no bowls of more lemons than an entire bathtub of Pimm’s called for, no DIY fridge art. Only a few photos, one of which, showing Seb with a tall brunette, made him sneer. “Oh, is that the missus?” 

“Alli? Yes.”

“What?” Now Sherlock sat. “But…that’s _Allegra_! You mean…” He could tell from Seb’s face it was true.

“Umm. I sent you an invite. You never replied.” Seb passed him a striped mug of tea. 

Sherlock stared at the other photos, calculated times, dates. “I was busy.” He scratched down his arm, repressing the memories. “So you’re married?” Was this how normal people felt, dealing with the world, he wondered. It was _awful_. He wasn’t taking any more analgesics. Pain was better than this.

“Not anymore. It didn’t work out.”

“When didn’t it? About five years ago?”

“Umm. Bit busy myself then.” Seb shrugged, chopping up some vegetable stuff.

“Do you…have children?” Sherlock rolled the last word around his mouth before it came out, like a pirate with a gold coin.

“Just the one. Boy. Called Sherlock, actually.”

“No!”

“Of course no. God, Belle. You were never this easy to take the piss out of. I’m giving you a pass because of the whole ‘a house fell on me and broke my brain’ thing, but do try to keep up?” Seb poked a stick of celery at him.

“But you tried to cop off with her brother!” cried Sherlock, needing the advantage.

“Not while we were married.”

“Married.” All the words Sherlock couldn’t voice were contained in that one.

“Can you please stop acting like I betrayed the sissyhood? You knew I was bi. And not just bi-dialectal.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze before the look in Seb’s eyes.

“What about you?” Seb asked.

“Not bi, no. Not even curious.” He smirked.

“No, you knobhead. Anyone special?”

“I like to think I am, yes. Oh, no. Not really. There’s a bloke I…work with. He’s not as imbecilic and horrendous as most people.”

“Sounds like love, that, coming from you. Does he know you’re okay, after the warehouse slash explosion?”

“Oh. Maybe I should –”

“Ah-ah. No phones at the table. You okay with eating in here?”

Sherlock had already spotted the modern study off the kitchen. (Probably a store room originally. Likes being down here. Security – reminds him of being small and his grandparents.) “What’s this?” He poked at the wedge of pastry next to the salad.

“Some sort of pie. I inherited Miggie’s daughter Mags, who comes three times a week and brings food. It’s edible. It’ll bring back memories of college.”

“I can’t eat that.” Sherlock put his cutlery down and picked at a bit of lettuce. Seb stared at him.

“Can’t or won’t? How do you want me to respond to that? ‘If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding’? Make aeroplane noises as I wave a forkful around?”

“Knob,” commented Sherlock.

“Whatever, but I’m not getting into that. Do what you have to do. I’d just advise you not to fuck up your stomach lining by taking anti-inflammatories without eating.”

“Massive knob.” Sherlock jumped as a small flap at the bottom of the back door swung inwards and the big mostly black cat came in. He came right up to Sherlock and mewed, as best as he could with his mouth full. Of a dead mouse. He put a heavy, sharp-clawed paw on Sherlock’s leg to get his attention.

“Thanks, erm, Beamish,” said Sherlock. He looked at Seb and shrugged. “Does he want paying for it, or something?”

The cat deposited the mouse at Sherlock’s feet and weaved his way around Seb’s legs. Seb patted him and he left.

“He sees you’re incapacitated, so he’s helping you.”

“I can get my own rodents, thank you.” Sherlock bent down to the field mouse.

“Jesus, don’t put it on the table!” With a scrape and clatter Seb stood, fetched a handful of plastic bags, and wrapped up the carcass.

“Hey – I need a dead mouse! I was studying into livers, and… So he does that, feeds the infirm?” Sherlock let Seb scrub their hands and the wooden surface with bleach.

“Umm. One winter I had the ’flu, and he brought me in a huge gull. Not quite dead, though. It was bloody awful, wringing its neck, then trying to dig a hole in the frozen ground to bury it.” 

Sherlock admired the way Seb returned to his meal unshaken and unmoved by the incident. He even tried the pie – it wasn’t that bad.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Sherlock continued his inspection of the room and its cupboards once he’d finished. He rifled through the boxes of cereal, because he wanted to check –

“You won’t find any.” Seb had come up close behind him, making him whirl. “I presume you’re looking for Fruit ’n’ Fibre?”

“Still freaks you out? After all these years.”

“That ad scarred me for life. The bloke’s eyebrows –”

“More accurately, watching it while stoned off your nut scarred you for life.”

Seb’s aversion had always amused Sherlock. He’d enjoyed trying to sneakily bring Seb into contact with the stuff, relishing the shrieks as Seb woke up to find a box or photocopies of the packaging left out for him.

“Yes, well. Feel free to snoop around while I get back to work. See how long it takes you to find the porn. Shall we have a bet on it? Hey, buddy. I’m sorry I offered you money for the security job at Shad. I knew it was crass as I did it.”

Sherlock found himself smiling at the lightning-fast switch. “Not the first security job I had to take on. At least you didn’t make me wear a ghastly nylon uniform and a peaked cap. And yes, I know,” he replied.

“Thanks. Or do want to be _dame au sofa_? Daytime telly? You’ll be undisturbed – Mags does the top floor today.”

Sherlock of course preferred to poke around, trying to figure out if Allegra had ever lived here with Sebastian. On the whole he thought not. The bay-windowed front room led through to a longer book-lined room, both with comfy-looking sofas. The bigger room overlooked the back garden and had a piano. Did Seb still play? Sherlock curled a lip, remembering Seb’s first-date showstopper of arranging to meet his date somewhere with a piano and getting there early, to be found playing. He’d laughed when Sherlock had turned up with his violin that time and joined in. Rosie hadn’t found it so amusing, he recalled.

Rather good paintings, antiques, and not surprisingly, TVs as small and out-dated as Sherlock’s, placed on a table in the front room and perched on a shelf in the second. He chose the back room and texted Lestrade, asking for cases to work on, he was bored, receiving a string of abuse back. Seems the Met hadn’t appreciated having to clean up his mess at the docks, or the fallout of his actions in smashing the gang’s supply route and point of entry. Charming. Serve them right if he stopped trying to decode what he presumed was the name of the contact, the distributer. Oh, John not speaking to him either? As if he could have told John all the details of the matter on which he’d been engaged. Much better for him that way.

What had Seb said about releasing John back into the wild? Maybe he’d prefer that to the form of witless protection he was under...

“Sherbet! Sorry, just checking you hadn’t fallen into a coma.” It was hours later, and Seb had sneaked up on him and was...forcing his eyelids open?

“I didn’t sustain a head injury. You don’t have to keep me awake and do neurological tests, for God’s sake.”

“Were you asleep? You used to hate sleep.” Seb pushed Sherlock’s legs up and plopped down. “Mags covered you up, I’m guessing.”

“Yes; I’ve been tidied up, it seems. I was awake for days on the case. And then, with the horrific injuries and all the meds…”

“So you’ll need a spot of dinner. How about you eat all the soup, and I’ll take you out for a drink?”

“Silly season at the bank, is it? Don’t you have clients to schmooze, bosses to toady to, staff to motivate? Team building, trust exercises, and so on?”

“Oh, all of the above. But I also have a convalescent house guest to entertain. And this is the longest I’ve seen you indoors, when –”

“Sex or drugs or study wasn’t involved. Yes, fine. I suppose I owe you a drink.”

“And this had better not be some tacky psuedopub with yards of identical horse brasses and silver pewter tankards and browning sepia photos leaping off the walks,” gasped Sherlock a few hours later as Seb helped him up a narrow curved steep hill.

“Yes, Sherley. That would be my local.” Seb rolled his eyes. “Man and boy I’ve hanging out with nouves who don’t know any better.”

“Oh dear Lord, it’s the Prancing Pony,” muttered Sherlock on seeing the bulging windows, ducking his head under the low ceilings and projectile missile beams of the dimly lit wooden-floored, painted-walled rooms. At least there were no clumps of sage green with black labs or golden retrievers and the brass didn’t gleam and assault his eyes.

“It really did used to be stables, you know,” commented Seb, and Sherlock laughed.

“Had my first drink right there,” Seb continued, pointing to a table in an alcove near the front.

“Handy for the loo.”

“Even handier for the window. Hoppy beer is the living end.”

Seb led him through the series of rooms with their odds and sods furniture, stopping to greet several people, until they reached the back to sit in a glassed-over greenhouse bit.

“Patrick,” said Sherlock a few minutes in.

“Here?” Seb turned and tried to see over the heads of people at the next table.

“Arse. I mean, are you and he still shagging?” The people at the next table swivelled their heads this time, tuning in.

“Hmm. May I know why you’re asking?” Seb set his glass down.

“Well, should I ever decide to fuck you again, I’d need to know. I don’t share. You know that.” Even as he spoke, Sherlock didn’t know if he was being serious or not.

“Nah. Just a hit-on-and-run. A few times. It meant nothing. Well, nothing beyond getting laid. Does that sound awful? It wasn’t _droit de seigneur_. Wasn’t for his evaluation.”

“Not something you ask on recruitment? ‘To get promotion, are you willing to –’”

“Sebastian! Room for a little one?”

“Or two?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the voices and the intrusion, betting Seb was using this as networking, firming up, or whatever the latest buzzword was nowadays. But the couple, Seb's neighbours, weren’t as bad as they could have been (Sebastian slept with her? Last…Christmas? No: New Year. Well well) and Sherlock hid a grin against the rim of his glass at Seb’s use of “sweets” and “fellah” to the couple: he couldn’t remember their names. His sweeping back of his floppy fringe was another tell.

“Sebastian’s got a grey shirt like that,” said the woman suddenly. “I remember because I remarked how well it went with his blue eyes.”

“It is his,” replied Sherlock. Into the silence that followed, he added, “I’ve got his trousers and boxer shorts on too. I arrived at his house without a change of clothes, you see.”

“Oh, so you’re – God, it’s not ACDC these days, is it?” The woman was coping well. He could almost see what Seb must have seen in her. “What’s the PC initials to describe it?”

“NQOC?” quipped Sebastian. “Yep, Sherlock’s definitely in a class of his own, my love.” He dropped his hand down to squeeze Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock gave him a questioning stare, and Seb raised his hands in mock horror. “Sorry! This took me back a bit. Forgot where I was.”

“Farce of habit?” But Sherlock grinned as wide as Seb until they dissolved into laughter.

“Old times’ sake,” said Seb, getting him some crisps to take home. “Sherbet dab?” he enquired outside in the muffle of calm and silence beyond the snug of the pub.

Sherlock had always hated rhyming slang. Mostly because he didn’t know it. That one he did know. People had thought it hilarious back in the day. “I can walk. No need,” he replied. “You can help me if I stagger, can’t you?”

“And the trip down Memory Lane just got another stop added on,” muttered Seb, then giggled.

“What?”

“Just when you were in the loo, Giles came up with a Brangelina-like moniker for us.”

“I wasn’t in the loo. I was texting an art expert and a Scotland Yard detective inspector.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you spot the original Munnings in the third room?”

“Munnings? War horses, draught horses, race horses, hunting horses and the odd fox hound?”

“And the occasional sun-kissed gypsy. And bucolic scenes, as there. Pastoral pigs. Contented cows. I was wondering why paintings stolen about fifty years ago from the Greentree Foundation in Long Island would be here.”

“As one would.”

“Quite. Thought I’d make a gift of it to the Met.” And appease Lestrade, he didn’t add.

“Oh. Nice of you.”

“I thought so.” Sherlock opened the crisps. They shared them.

“Seeing as how I took you to the pub and got these, do I get half your finder’s fee?” wondered Seb.

Sherlock looked pained. “For ready salted? As if. Now, if you’d got pickled onion…”

“They don’t do pickled onion. I did ask.”

“Oh, well, in that case…no.” Sherlock glanced behind them down the too-quiet, too-long-and narrow street, confirming his suspicions. He bent forwards and towards his companion. “Seb,” he whispered, pulling him down to whisper in his ear.

“Need a hand already? You never could hold your drink.”

“Don’t freak out, and don’t look around, but are you aware we’re being followed?”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

“Blimey, fans, is it? Groupies, stalkers, Holmesboys, whatever you call ’em, from your Web site?”

“Seb.” Sherlock began leading them towards the high street, glad they weren’t on any of the roads heading down to the Heath. The high street had CCTV. He’d go to the first camera he saw and make the signal. He’d be indebted to his brother, but he was injured and Seb…wasn’t John. He wouldn’t be armed. But, actually, would he? You never knew, with Seb. Sherlock checked, eliciting an, “Ooh. Cheap thrills.”

“In case…anything should happen, would you like to take the chance to say anything, ask anything?” He swung Seb around, backing him against a rustic lamppost with a hanging basket as if pulling him in for a clinch.

“Yeah, actually. One thing has been puzzling me. When you said ‘Chechnyan traffickers,’ did you mean traffickers who are Chechnyan, or people who traffic in Chechnyans? Because how you phrased it, it could go either way.” Seb made weighing gestures with both hands.

“Oh. I say, old chap, mind telling me who you’ve had following us since we left the house? Oh, and why?” Sherlock thought he could guess. A tiny, thin prickle of chill over Sebastian’s motives, much milder than the one he’d felt in the hospital, iced down his spine, but he ignored it.

“Don’t get the hump, but there’s a little man from IBSSA sort of, well –”

“He’s not so little. What’s the acronym?” His desire for knowledge outweighed his irritation.

“Mate! The International Bodyguard and Security Services Association! Only the best! Martial arts, close combat, bodyguarding, escorting, events security, and get this: Ivory Coast trained!”

“And you trust him. Them.”

“Yes, I do.” Seb stopped and looked at Sherlock. “Had occasion to. Oh, they’re trained by Eddie Stone himself!”

“Who?”

“What!” This led to Seb’s enthusiastic detailing of the man’s career, delivered along with a running commentary on the shops and amenities they passed in the village, meaning comments such as “training with live ammo,” mingled with, “this place might scream gingham tablecloths, but it isn’t completely useless for late-night tuck.” It was so very Seb, disarming, showing the annoyingly refracted prism of his mind, which could surely be sharper if he would only focus. And only Seb could be a close protection snob.

“Oh, you haven’t seen the garden. Want a look?” Seb led the way round the side of the house and down the steps to the small space. “This bit here, I thought I’d do something with. You know?”

“Well, you’ve made a smokers’ patio. With a telescope for late-night snooping,” answered Sherlock, sinking down onto a chair, suddenly feeling the night and the stars and being with Seb.

“Waiting For The Moon To Rise” said Seb, throwing a blanket over him. Sherlock twitched it off.

“It looks different in the daytime,” he finished, shrugging, lighting up. “Will you tell me about John?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching. He’d asked about Patrick, and Seb had answered plainly. He could do nothing else, really. “I’d never been responsible for anyone before. It was…”

“Heady stuff?”

“Hairy stuff, if anything, Scary stuff,” Sherlock corrected. “He’d been wounded – quite badly – and invalided out. In London, no purpose, no use, injured, trying to adapt. I was his transitional object.”

“Sort of halfway between the forces and civvy street, you mean?”

“Leaving out the old fogeyisms, yes. I think he’s ready to let go of me.”

“And that’s…”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Makes you sound like a teddy bear, when he has a distinct teddy look to him,” Seb went on. Sherlock as usual didn’t bother correcting anyone who underestimated John. They’d learn. The hard way.

“I suppose it’s a cover. ‘Awww over the woolly jumper and don’t look at the military jacket and haircut.’ Hiding in plain sight.” Yes, okay. Seb wasn’t just anyone. “Oh Lord, teddies. Remember how you claimed you could guess –”

“Deduce.”

“– what stuffed animals anyone had at uni?”

“That wasn’t hard. I even got your crocodile. But so many bears. Like they were just waiting to get together to go round and round the garden. Wait. Who was it collected those awful hump-backed vintage teddy bears? Oh. Sorry. That was –”

“Alli, yes. God, they freaked me out. She brought them all with her, you know. And spent hours adding to the collection after we were married. I was tempted to pull the buttons out of the ears.”

“I did on one once. At uni.”

“Yeah, she’s still going on about it. I suggested we bandage it up and call it wounded bear, get a theme going. You could have gay bear, dentist bear, gay dentist bear… No dice. You know, buddy, the time she devoted to acquiring and cataloguing and showing those beasts, I would have been well within my rights to cite Richard Steiff in the divorce petition.”

Sherlock laughed, really laughed, laying his head down on the table and crying. So much was released, stuff he hadn’t even known was stored.

“I never had a teddy,” he wheezed, finally.

“That’s a goddam lie.”

“What?”

“To my certain knowledge you had some scared Commoner from St Edmund Hall up against a tree in the deer park, still in sub-fusc from matriculation. It’s called Freshers’ Week, Sherlock. Not _Pick-Yourself-a-Ripe-Fresher Week_ , in point of fact.”

“I-I got a _blowjob_ , in point of fact.” Sherlock hiccupped to a stop. “And how do you know about that? It was after you’d gone down.”

“You’d be surprised what I know.”

Sherlock was the first to drop his gaze in the heavy pause that followed. He stared out into the moving patches of dark in the garden, watched the gentle shadows of the bushes.

“Seb, your cat’s…different,” he commented. The animal looked slightly smaller and his white patch wasn’t under his eyes and on his chest but a slash across his face from left to right. “Oh.” The normal cat followed behind the first through the flap into the kitchen.

“Oh, I call that one Murphy. Beamish brings him from time to time. I figure it’s when his owners are rowing and forget to feed him. Beamish and he are chums, if you see what I mean.”

Sherlock bit his lip but couldn’t stop himself. “Seb, mate, buddy, anyone who’s shipping his cats really needs to get laid.”

This time the silence was even more awkward. And even more when Sherlock muttered that he’d better get off to bed.

“Hey, if you’ve got a collapsed lung, sleep on the other side so it re-inflates faster. I was reading about it.”

“In _Pneumothorax Monthly_? Stick to banking.” Still smiling, Sherlock stood to go.

“Sherlock. Don’t ditch the bodyguard if you go out. Please.”

“In case you get sued if anything happens to me whilst I’m under your roof?”

“Something like that.”

“Fine, Mummie. I’ll take a scarf too.”

“You already did. And ruined it, chum.”

Acknowledging the hit, Sherlock bent his head, to do what, he didn’t know. Maybe to drop a kiss on the top of Seb’s head. Seb tilted up, stretched, and their lips met. It was soft, and…moonlit, was all Sherlock could think to call it. Sweet and pearlescent, somehow. Questing, in some way, and answering in another.

He turned and marched in. He only stopped once on his way to bed, to examine the photos tucked to the back of the window ledge on the stairs. They were all of a similar theme, but the biggest was of the two of them, taken on their way to that pathetic Christmas Event at the Museum of the History of Science their first term, showing that they’d indulged in a more steampunk theme than an actual Victorian or Edwardian costume. He had a copy of the photo, but his was creased and even crumpled from being folded and scrunched in a fist, then smoothed out. Always smoothed out.

He curled up on the windowsill, holding the frame up to catch the tilt of light coming in. He let the light gleam through the red and blue petals of the stained glass fleur-de-lys at the top of the pane, casting new tones and shades on the familiar image.

Sherlock bathed in the memories the moonlight brought. They were equally as efferent: umbral and sharp together. The stupid party wasn’t the reason he recalled the night so perfectly, of course. No, the reason it lived in his memory was because later that night was the first time he and Sebastian had slept together. The first time he’d ever slept with anyone.

Had Sebastian placed the photo there to be found? Hiding in plain sight, as he’d said? Their relationship hadn’t begun there, not really; it had begun earlier, the evening he’d barged into Seb’s room. But he had a feeling that the next stage of their relationship would begin, _no_ , was beginning here.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

He swiped the photo, of course he did, and propped it in its frame on his bedside table. He strained his ears to see if Sebastian was playing any of their music, maybe even _Tonight, Tonight_. But he heard nothing and, cursing his body’s weakness and the strength of the painkillers, fell asleep.

He awoke to a note slipped under the door – again, very old-fashioned in this day and age and from a technophile like Seb. Seb, who was going to be at work until late, then fly to New York for a few days. But he would check in. Huh. He’d see Sherlock wasn’t moping, or pining, or anything of that nature. Sherlock used the time to get organised, get settled in. The process started with him retrieving his violin and clothes and toiletries from 221B in a roundabout way, involving Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner’s eldest, a couple of Angelo’s ‘helpers’ and some of Sherlock’s street network. Sherlock even got the guard du jour, Frik – apparently his real name and not a professional alias – to help carry.

On his travels, Sherlock learnt there was a press conference scheduled at the Met for the next day. Which meant he had to spend all that day perfecting a disguise to crash it. And it was worth every minute to watch Lestrade and to a lesser extent Donovan squirm under the official story they’d been out for a drink and noticed the original masterpieces, so contacted the Arts and Antiques Unit.

Sherlock’s disguise was so good, and his South African accent, with Frik’s coaching, so convincing he went undetected as he stood and asked a question.

“Yis, do NSY detectives regularly go out for a dop when they’re on duty?”

Donovan spluttered a little before she could reply, but Sherlock fancied Lestrade gave him a cool look. He shot him a filthy one when he found him in his office much later, once everyone had gone, still in his casual clothes and stringy blond wig, his forged press pass dangling from a negligent finger.

“Don't git your broekies in a knot,” he advised Lestrade, still in the nasal drawl he’d been using all day. Then in his normal clipped diction, “It is I, Sherlock.”

“Bad fucking penny,” muttered Lestrade, pushing Sherlock out of his chair. “The fuck you playing at? Think this is funny, do you? A bit of a lark, what?”

“Sod off. I handed you a coup. Is it my fault you skipped all your scheduled media training courses and hate press conferences? And I’m on the trail of the gang.” He stared hard at the DI. “Which is why I need all you’ve got. All you’ve been working on. Let’s work together.”

He had no qualms about pushing Lestrade’s buttons. Well, it was mutual. Lestrade had never once toadied to him, even while admitting and acknowledging he needed him. No, he’d call him out on things, push him – make him work harder and more thoroughly. Sherlock paused, lost in thought. In many ways Lestrade was like Sebastian, or at least treated him similarly. Never bowing down to his admittedly superior talents and abilities. Never flattering or facilitating. Just…challenging him to do more, be more. Interesting.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“Fine. So, updates?”

“Most of the gang is in custody or fled. One at large, we think, and will be as long as his distribution network’s in place. That’s what we don’t know. We now know how the drugs come in, but not where they go after, or how they’re distributed. And don’t make that noise, sunshine: are you any the wiser? No? Well then. Plus we need to know how they’re laundering their money.”

“Hiding in plain sight, most probably. And the means will be connected to the supply network in some way. You need somewhere with a turnover of cash, where there’s more flowing out, or somewhere it’s pumped in. I’m not sure…”

 

Having the house to himself meant he could set up his lab just how he liked it. In the laundry room off the kitchen, the range still warming the rooms even unlit. Home, home with a range, thought Sherlock, curling a lip in derision.

Mags didn’t mind; she just gave him a wide berth. If it meant no laundry or ironing was done, well, shame. Her change in routine to ignoring that area in favour of cleaning the upstairs and doing something in the garden gave him more space to spread his current case notes out, his wall of research. Seb wasn’t using his study was he? Sherlock ignored the call, then the text. He assumed the bodyguards reported to their boss and so Seb would be up to date.

He was working in his lab two days later when the front door opened and closed and Seb was back, windswept-haired, face flushed from the night chill, standing in the doorway, taking everything in. Sherlock spared him a cool glance, a brief look up from his microscope, waited for him to speak.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here.”

“Oh. I can easily –”

“I mean I’m glad you are.”

Seb approached and stood waiting, and when Sherlock lifted his head up and faced him, Seb leant in and kissed him. His gaze searched Sherlock’s as their lips met, and the contact, the coming together was warm, and wanting. Sherlock breathed in the earthy scent of Sebastian’s cologne, charred cedar wood and clean benzoin tree with sweet-sharp citrus, outdoorsy for an office worker. New. Surely this wasn’t the closest match he could find for his old lime extract aftershave? And there was still a little left in the bottle in his bathroom. And more bottles in the cabinet. Hmm. Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked this. Seb’s lips curled into a grin over his, and Seb pulled back and smiled.

“Watcha doin’?”

“I’m examining my urine for traces of blood.”

“I’m so glad I got the kiss in before I knew that. Hi, Beamish. What’s…all that?” He pointed at but didn’t move towards the tray of small animal corpses.

“Beamish has been bringing me mice, which is great because he kills them in front of me, so I know the exact time of death, which in turn enables me to measure the breakdown of the alkaline in the bile. This is –”

“Mate.” Seb looked pained. “I’m so very glad I got a kiss in before I knew about any of this. And it’s research, yes?”

“Oh yes. Knowing the degree of neutralisation of stomach acid –”

“Please. Just remember to credit your feline lab assistant when you submit your article to the _Lancet_ , will you? And those carcasses over them. Dissected and pinned. Not mice.”

“No; Beamish also catches water voles, so I’m…”

A pale Seb had left the lab. “Any tuck? Let’s have some champagne!” he called.

Sherlock heard the ’fridge, then the clink of glassware. He walked in, pushed some crumpets down to toast. “What are we celebrating?”

“I’m back! Isn’t that enough? Good Lord. That’s a new one.” Seb indicated the black and white cat on top of the stove. She raised a sleepy broad face in curiosity but remained with her fat paws tucked beneath her.

“Yes. I think Beamish tells her to hang out here when her owners are paying too much attention to the new baby. It upsets her, you see.”

“Oh. I quite understand. Hey, did you wash your hands?”

“Yes,” lied Sherlock wide-eyed and straight-faced. Do Sebastian good to loosen up


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

Seb kicked two basket chairs into place front of the Aga and raised Sherlock’s flute of champagne to his lips for him to sip as he buttered the crumpets.

“Cheers. Here. So, New York? Success, was it?” Sherlock sat and tucked away a smile at the domesticity of it.

“Oh, very fruitful. Once the SEC imposes these new rules on mandatory internal compliance programmes, the London exchange won’t be far behind the NYSE. I mean, look at how we followed their line on policing security-based swaps and mixed swaps, despite all the overhauling that involved. So my thinking is embrace it ASAP, get into bed with it, in fact, ahead of the game.”

“Absolutely.”

“Which puts us in a position to showcase this to clients, rounds of client seminars, workshops, factsheets, that sort of thing, adding value and… Sorry. Here, let me top you up.”

“You like it, don’t you. You live for the work.” Sherlock closed his eyes for a second against the bubbles as he sipped.

“I don’t know,” said Seb, after a pause. “The latter, I mean. It’s fantastic and I love it, but there’s more.”

“Did you bring me a present?”

“Oh yes. Socks. And pants. One can never have enough, can one.” Seb paused again, laughed, and looked over at Sherlock. “Buddy, this is the gayest thing I’ve ever done.”

“What?”

“Sitting on a wicker chair in front of the stove, talking about socks and knickers. It’s so swishy!”

Sherlock noted how Seb’s accent and vocabulary had taken on an American tinge even after such a short time. Well, as he’d said, he was bi-dialectal. Sherlock examined him. All work, no play. Hadn’t had sex with anyone over there. Probably got the new cologne at the airport.

“Did you miss me?” Always the conversation quick-change artist.

“Yes, actually.” Sherlock surprised himself with his answer. Strange. “Don’t suppose you missed me?”

“No – I’ve never been in NY with you,” replied Seb and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

“Look, I won’t be hanging around for much longer. The case should be wrapped up soonish. I’m working it.”

“Umm. Caught a glimpse of your mood board, or thinking wall, or whatever you call it.” Seb indicated the room off the kitchen. “Looks like your brain exploded onto a cork board.”

“Arse.” Sherlock flicked the champagne cork he’d been playing with at Seb. It bounced off his head and Seb caught it. “I’ll move it. I’ve been liaising with the Met, and most of the gang are accounted for.”

“It’s fine where it is. By Met, you mean the delicious DI Lestrade.”

Sherlock turned to raise an eyebrow and give Seb the quizzical look he and his elder brother had learnt from their father.

“NY was abuzz with the news of the returning artworks. I caught the news about ‘his’ discovery in my local. Poor guy. You’re a brute to do that to him without telling him a tie in a colour which brings out his eyes melts the stoniest critic’s heart. Especially if all the stuff about him bringing the paintings back to a ticker-tape parade is true. You never had any intention of collecting the finder’s fee, did you.”

“I’m still mentally raising an eyebrow at that, just so you know,” replied Sherlock.

“Will he put in for the reward?”

“No.”

“You sound very sure. Lestrade’s the one who’s less horrendously imbecilic than most, I presume.”

“Yes. I…respect him, I suppose. Plus he tolerates me. He took a chance on me back when not many people would have. Got me on board as a consulting detective. It gave me a purpose, at a time when I didn’t have one.” Sherlock found he’d moved closer to Seb and had a hand on the arm of his chair.

“I see. I’m glad. That he was there for you, I mean.”

“Not that we’re not having wild sex all over Scotland Yard?” Sherlock gave up the games and sat back, propping his feet on the range’s rail and soaking up the warmth of the room, the velvet silence, the fat tick of the wall clock and the dark of the night outside. He left his hand where it was. “I don’t even know if he’s gay, for one thing.”

“Mate. There’s no man alive who wouldn’t go gay for you. I was thinking of getting you a T-shirt made: ‘Sherlock Holmes, turning straights gay since puberty.’”

“You absolute dickhead!”

“Hey!” Seb lobbed the cork he’d been turning over in his hand at Sherlock. It hit him, bounced free, and landed on the floor. Beamish dived from a shelf and pounced on it, dribbling it out of the room.

“Wow. If he gets tipsy from licking that, you’ll be the one explaining to his irate owners, Colonel and Mrs Fortescue at number 67.”

“That’s his house?”

“No idea. I just make up bits to fill in the gaps.” They watched Beamish punt the missile around the kitchen. “At least he’ll stay in training while you’re here,” Seb remarked. “Hey, mate. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. Not just now. I mean I’ve missed you.”

“I know.” Sherlock rearranged his limbs and smirked.

“How d’you know?”

“You just told me.”

“I don’t see the point of dissimulating. Not any longer. I’m getting old and too much time has passed. Sherlock, you know how I feel. I think you always have. I’m not going to say anything more now. It’s not the right time yet, and I’m so afraid of stuffing things up. I couldn’t deal with ruining…anything.”

Sherlock half turned, met the open navy-blue gaze at close range. He nodded huge-eyed, which Sebastian interpreted as a signal to run his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, smoothing first the bottom, then the top, following the movement with his gaze. He’d always loved the feel of Sherlock’s full, plush lips, which were now curving into a private smile. Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, just enough to be able to catch the pad of Seb’s thumb between his teeth and bite down. Not that gently. Seb’s smile was more rueful and twisted as he removed his thumb.

Sherlock moved forwards just as Seb did, so neither could be said to initiate the kiss, making it inevitable and right. Welcoming and promising, familiar and new. Until Seb yawned and covered his mouth in horror.

“God, sorry. Really. That’s appalling.”

“It really is.” But Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “I suppose I’ll give you a pass. You’ve been awake what, thirty hours?”

“’Bout that, yeah. But I’ll be okay after five hours’ deep sleep.”

“I remember.” It was a gift.

“I’m off. Sherlock – stay. As long as you like. Please.”

“Look, I’ll…clean up.” Sherlock gestured around the kitchen.

Seb clutched the door frame. “Bloody hell. Is Mom coming? You’d tell me, right?”

“Hey.” At the call, Seb came back in. “Catch. Your car keys. Your Jag’s a lovely ride.”

Seb managed to grab the keys as they flew. “I know. _I Love My Car_. Erm, buddy, did you ever take your test?” he asked.

“Sebastian.” Sherlock stood, shook his head. “I thought we agreed bits of paper were empty and meaningless? Especially Finals?”

“If I didn’t have such monster jet lag…” Seb tottered away. Sherlock tidied up. To some extent.

He wondered how and when things would move to the next step, now they both on the same footing, as it were. He wasn’t sure, and he found for once he liked not being sure. Seb was always unpredictable, but Sherlock wasn’t seriously expecting some huge dramatic moment. He definitely wasn’t expecting anything early the next morning.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

“Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!

Sherlock shook himself awake and felt angry at his sluggishness, more so when he realised Seb had been shouting his name for a while.

“What?”

“Fancy a fuck?”

He considered. His cock stirred and began to fill. “Go on then.”

“Come here then.”

“Why? You come here.”

“My bed’s bigger. And my erection.”

“Prove it.”

“Just come in here! I’ll make it worth your while.”

Good job no one’s listening to this, thought Sherlock, walking to Seb’s bedroom. 

“Wow. You really need new socks and undies,” commented Seb, eyeing Sherlock’s naked body. 

“God, it’s hot in here. Sybarite.”

“Spartan.” Seb threw back the duvet and sat up. Sherlock stared at the muscles of Seb’s chest and upper arms.

“Sebastian. Not…squash? You play squash? After all we used to say about it?”

“Buddy, as if! It’s not 1999 and the ultra-short-term seventies revival now. Real tennis, don’t you know. And you need a haircut.” He ruffled the raggedy curls as Sherlock slid in next to him. 

“So you do, Flopsy. Your hair, Flopsy the Fringe, I mean.” Seb’s erection was as impressive as promised, standing tall of his no-doubt salon-trimmed pubes.

“Got an appointment today, as it happens. Come here. God, this is weird. Screwing you again, after all these years.”

“Fuck off, I’m screwing you! I’m not in the mood to bottom.”

“Bugger. Hmm. Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Fuck.” Sherlock chose rock, Seb paper. He’d expected Seb to choose scissors. “Best of three?”

“As if. Lie down. You’re mine now, boy.” 

Sherlock wriggled, lying back as instructed, going for casual, legs spread, hands behind his propped-on-pillows head, scars on his arms exposed. All of them. He wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten, or wanted…

He felt Seb’s glance, then his fingertip stroking over various marks. No. He couldn’t. “Don’t,” he said, dropping his gaze. “Not now. Not yet. Let’s just…”

“How are the ribs? Anything I should know? The bruising’s healing.”

Sherlock shook his head, and Sebastian leant down to give him a soft, almost sweet peck on the lip. “Later, then,” he said quietly. Sherlock smiled against the tickle of Seb’s fringe, which was almost as Eton-flop as it had used to be. Yet things were different. They were both grown-ups, seasoned. Seb was married and divorced, for fuck’s sake. He had cats. He himself was…put back together again. Or maybe not, maybe just finished growing. Yet this felt fine. Natural. 

He saw his smile reflected in Seb’s anticipatory grin, which quickly became a chuckle that accompanied the hard, hot slide of Seb’s cock against his and the warmth of sure fingers pressing them together. Sherlock fought against a squirm as he felt the heavy fullness of Sebs’s balls rest for a heartbeat, like a promise, between his thighs as Seb reached out for condoms and lube. All new. (Picked up at chemist yesterday. The cologne was a blind?) 

Seb sat back, suited up, and reached for him. Sherlock made his prick jump away from the questing fingers, and Seb gave a stifled giggle before capturing him, assessing Sherlock’s girth and length. “Don’t tease now. Please. God, look at you. All that sloe-eyed arrogance. All for me.”

“Nothing slow about my eyes. Only slow thing in this bed is –”

“Belle. Not now. Let me just have this, have you, okay? I can’t fucking wait. You’re even more gorgeous. And don’t ask questions and don’t critique things, please,” murmured Seb as he started. Sherlock frowned. Had he used to? He couldn’t repress a flinch, then freezing, as Sebastian breached him. 

“You’re so tight!” Seb stopped and assessed.

“Been a while,” muttered Sherlock.

“If you say it’s been eight years –”

“Fuck off.” He grabbed Seb’s hand, stopped the two fingers fluttering around his hole. “I’ve been busy.”

“Buddy.” Seb pointedly removed Sherlock’s hand, repositioned Sherlock, and started stroking around the rim. “I work eighteen-hour days, and I find time to get laid.” He continued at the new, slower, gentler pace, resisting Sherlock’s attempts to push and impale himself.

“Good for you. Your work/life balance badge is in the post. Are you going to fuck me or what?” Despite him attempting flip, it came out breathier than Sherlock wanted.

“I’m going to _enjoy_ you. Unless this is a trick so you get to fuck me? Some weird muscle-control thing you…” He read the look on Sherlock’s face and stopped. “Still like dirty talk?”

Sherlock considered. He had, when done properly. Seb had done it well. There’d been no one else who... He shrugged, as much as his position allowed, then nodded.

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock. I can’t believe how tight your arse is. Like a virgin’s. This is going to feel so fantastic. Just like the first time, and that was beyond amazing. I’m going to make you scream for me, like you did then. I’ve been fantasising about it, especially after you came in to my office. I wish you’d come in my office.” He switched to Sherlock’s cock for a moment, treated it to long, sure strokes.

“I wanted to bend you over my desk and fuck you bare.” He slid in a finger, up to its second knuckle. Sherlock stretched luxuriously around it. “Just wanted to get my cock up your arse with no barriers, feeling you all around me.” He tapped Sherlock’s elbow, and Sherlock obediently dropped an arm down to curl his fingers around his shaft. He remembered Seb had liked watching him bringing himself to the point of…

“I knew you’d still be tight. It’s always been a struggle. And I do love it when you struggle as well. I had this image of you starting with fighting, then taking it, despite it being too big and hurting, then begging for it, whimpering for me to take you hard.”

Seb was good. Sherlock was leaking precum, raring to go as he pictured the scene, him moaning like a tart. Seb stilled Sherlock’s hand and slowed his own movements, making sure he stretched Sherlock’s hole. 

“Can’t wait to swell inside you, shoot my load deep and hard. There’s never been anyone like you, you know. I come so hard for you. Just like you do for me.”

Sherlock found he was in the mod to bottom, after all. He’d drawn his legs up at some point, and was pushing back, particularly when Seb worked a second finger in, until he was fucking himself on Seb’s hand.

“Christ, Sherlock. If you could see yourself, letting me do anything I want. So perfect. So slutty –”

“You think that’s slutty?”

Sherlock turned over, onto his hands and knees, still pushing back against the fingers deep inside him. He dropped his head onto his folded arms and looked back at Sebastian.

“My God,” breathed Seb in reverence. He began rubbing small circles against Sherlock’s taint, stimulating the already swollen gland from the outside. 

“I’m ready, actually,” gasped Sherlock.

“Mmm, know. Want you frantic.” Seb moved into position between Sherlock’s legs and ran his fingernails up his back, repositioning him slightly, before gripping him and pressing inside. Slightly. He halted just inside, against the tight, nerve-rich section. Sherlock moaned.

“Still like this bit best?” he murmured, moving so bloody slowly. Sherlock nodded.

“ _Tell_ me,” commanded Seb, thrusting and moving from side to side, swelling more, scratching a hand up Sherlock’s back before tangling his hand in Sherlock’s hair. When Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, Seb leant down farther to bite at the junction of shoulder and neck, adding a firm twist of his hips to proceedings.

“Yes!” hissed Sherlock, and Seb continued to nudge and tease just on that spot, eliciting the loudest groans, and when he finally deigned to surge in, they both felt the stretch and burn. He pulled out, but was back, slamming hard before Sherlock could register a protest, so hard and forceful his balls slapped against Sherlock’s and his hair scratched at him. It was…overwhelming, particularly when Seb pulled Sherlock’s hand in place, under his own, around Sherlock’s cock, and timed the long, hard strokes to match his deep surges.

“Oh, you’re perfect. Let me hear you sc –”

And Sherlock did, if not exactly scream, make a very loud and desperate noise as he came, as they came together. The pressure of Seb’s hand around his increased, and the pace was maintained there and by Seb, even after both of them were spent, adding a nibble of pain to their coupling, prolonging the white rush of sensation blanketing him. 

His knees buckled, and he fell flat, taking Seb with him, all his heat and weight. Glorious. He felt Seb pull out carefully, keeping a grip on the base of the condom. Seb allowed himself to collapse on top of Sherlock’s scratched back for a second or two longer, sharing their mutual warmth and lassitude, before levering himself to his feet. Sherlock was pleased to see him wobble as he stood, and even grab the bedside table, to hear the unevenness in his voice as he said, “Fuck. Breakfast meeting,” and headed for the bathroom. He took the used condom with him, knot neatly tied, Boy Scout perfect, as if he were afraid Sherlock would appropriate the contents for some reason or another. 

Sherlock stretched, enjoying the ache and post-burn as he listened to Seb in the shower. A cat wrapped a paw around the door, pushed a little, but didn’t come in. There were bird noises from the garden. It was weirdly not too revolting, and he dozed a little, waking as a partially dressed Seb came in from his dressing room. 

“Are you okay?” he asked not meeting Sherlock’s eye in the mirror.

“You’re not that good. You haven’t given me a vasovagal episode.”

“I meant with your injuries. All that Turner-esque bruising and squashed innards can’t be easy.”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Breakfast?” Seb asked, lobbing a slim yellow-wrapped bar over.

“Chocoholic,” yawned Sherlock. “I’ll sod off. Sorry about the mess.”

“Stay. Oh God, I don’t mean I expect, you, that just because you’re here, to –”

Sherlock let him flounder, enjoying the rare sight and sound of Seb at a loss.

“Be your Pilipino house boy? Your Guatemalan pool boy?”

“Hmm. Your sexual fantasies are very interesting. I would love to explore them and you in greater depth,” replied Seb in a cod German accent. He sat on the edge of the bed. “C’mere.”

“What for?” Sherlock let Seb pull him close.

“Because you’ve got cum on your face and I want to lick it off.” Sherlock tried not to react as Seb did so. “I mean I’m not expecting anything. Hoping, maybe, as that was brilliant, but… Any thoughts?”

“The other one.” Sherlock pointed at the tie in Seb’s left hand as he held two up to his neck. 

“So, just to wrap things up, progress them forward –”

“Don’t summarise it in an e-mail. I’ll tell you where to send it.”

“If I’m in the mood, and you’re in the mood, could we maybe be in the mood together again? At some juncture?”

“I’m not usually in the mood.” He watched Seb try to conceal a reaction. “But that was a bloody good fuck. Well lush, as they say. Or used to say. I might be…amenable to persuasion. Your, erm, sweet talk worked wonders.”

“Mate! Persuasion? Catch!” And this time Sherlock received a chocolate bar in an orange wrapper.

“You only cross the pond to load up on candy. Oh, I like this one.”

“Hey, fancy coming this afternoon?”

Sherlock opened the chocolate. “This will do as fuel and I’ll see how my refractory period is. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“Arse. Nice arse, actually. Still. I mean the barber’s. My treat. Oh God. Not that I’m –”

“Being nice to the college student who mows your lawn? Will I get a certificate if I don’t fidget?”

“Yeah. They still give me one. I’ve got stacks. So, five o’clock. If you need a cab, use the corporate code. I’ll text it to you.”

“Just tell me.”

Sherlock was smiling all morning: the four-digit code the very top tier of bank employees used was his birthday day and month.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Sherlock was actually a little surprised to find himself at the Mayfair establishment that afternoon. He hadn’t been intending to go, didn’t want to be accused, even by his own thoughts, of coat-tailing Seb, re-tying the cord, or whatever cliché was fashionable. But once inside, he could see where Seb acquired most of his toiletries and accessories.

“Smells like a Turkish brothel,” was his greeting to the man himself as he negotiated the shaving brushes, shower gels, ties, cufflinks, hip-flasks and umbrellas to reach the waiting area.

“Common misconception.” Seb tossed his magazine onto the table and stood. “Turkish brothels have less jasmine and more tuberose.” He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “Got you the specialist. Come on.”

“I’m not even Mediterranean!” Sherlock hissed a few minutes later as the establishment’s Italian expert in thick, curly hair assessed him. He halted as they were led upstairs to the salon area. The landing provided a clear view down over the range of knives, cut-throats and razors. “Oh. Pretty.”

“So the male equivalent of pin money is blade money?” Seb halted too.

“What’s pin money?”

“Money women get given for fripperies. Part of their housekeeping.”

Sherlock only had to wait a second before Seb’s face fell and he muttered a, “Sorry, I wasn’t…”

“Sebastian. I’m not actually that poor and living on your charity; I still have funds, or rather a Fund, in addition to what I earn.”

“Hooray for Gramps, eh? I remember your face when you turned twenty-one. And I wish you’d let me take a look at that Fund for you one of these days. I could –”

“Sod off. Oh, one day. And look, say anything you like. If you say anything that really annoys me, I’ll –”

“Drug me, drag me up and invite witnesses in?”

“What?” He could see Seb was referring to a real incident. “Did I do that?”

“Yes. You don’t remember? I’m still in therapy about it. I’ve got the photos if you want to see. All of them. Took me years to track them all down.”

“I must have been…very annoyed. And a complete pain.” Sherlock looked hard at Seb, wanting him to understand.

“Not complete. You had your moments. Have. Yes, shutting up now.”

They were led to their side-by-side sinks, and Sherlock discovered his chair vibrated. “You should get one of these for the office,” he called over. When Seb squinted up, confused, Sherlock found the button and pressed it for him.

“Woah. I’d…get…no…work done.”

(Sensitive. Hmm.) “For the study, then.”

“I’d…get something done.”

They separated as Seb finished first, and Sherlock was led to a mahogany and glass cubicle. His specialist snipped away, making pained faces for a while, then asked, “Does sir like to talk?”

“He never bloody stops,” came Seb’s voice, then, “Ta-da!” as the dividing partition was swung back to reveal him in the next cubicle. He was having a shave at the same time. “Have the head massage,” he advised, beckoning someone over. “We could have steam facials if we’ve time.”

The barber frowned as Sherlock’s giggles made his head wobble. Seb asked, “Aren’t you sitting comfortably?”

“No thanks to you,” replied Sherlock in a low voice.

“Thanks to me, actually.”

“Oh, did I forget to thank you? Nanny would be horrified at the lapse in manners.” He texted, _Hey, it was a seriously good fuck. SH_. He watched Seb’s face as he read it. Seb looked over.

“I dunno if I believe you. Nothing about you is true. Sherlock: you’re not even fair-haired!”

“Oh, and how many times have you been to Sebaste, _man from Sebaste_?”

Barber’s? Sherlock could almost fancy Seb had found the fountain of youth day spa - it was like being young again. But better.

“Hey, don’t even thinking about paying for me,” he warned, as they submitted to their final brush-down downstairs, the clothes brush dragon examining them.

“Oh? Postal order come through?”

“No; I found your petty cash in the safe. Oh, yes, I cracked it open. Sorry, I meant to say. And it’s not so petty, actually. There’s rather a lot of it. In three currencies. And a US passport.”

Seb shrugged. “It’s mine, as I’m sure you noticed. As is the…other thing, which I presume you found too. Just in case. We all make, well, you know. But one doesn’t flash cash here; they bill. Settle up when it comes, yes? Just don’t let me buy anything. It’s like a small suburban branch of this shop in my bathroom as it is.”

What would it take to faze Sebastian, Sherlock found himself wondering as they stood outside in the balmy evening air. Seb passed him a brown-wrapper milk chocolate bar. “Here. You didn’t fidget. Well, no more than was to be expected, after this morning.” He dropped his eyes in mock coyness, and Sherlock, wide-eyed, fanned himself with a hand. 

“Oh, I didn’t get a certificate, for being good And I was _so_ good.” He paused on a bollard as Seb held up a hand and texted with the other. Within half a minute, he read, _Hey, you were seriously good. SW_. Sebastian was grinning, revealing each and every jagged tooth.

“Certainly put me in a fantastic mood all day.”

“Please tell your traders they can thank me at their leisure. So they don’t give certificates nowadays?”

“Mate, they _e-mail_ it nowadays. You have to print it out. You can still colour it in though. I’m meeting some folks just up there.” Seb pointed to a currently trendy hotel bar up the street. “Then dinner. Coming?”

“Corporate meeting? Schmoozing?”

“Umm. Guy who used to work with us, gone to clients now. Introducing me. He’s sound. Shouldn’t be –”

“I’m working, actually. Stakeout, and all that.” And I don’t trail around after you, his expression said.

Seb just looked at him for a moment. “Do you want to take the BG?”

“No. I was going to say. It wouldn’t be covered by your contract. Think of the insurance liabilities.”

“Sure?” At Sherlock’s nod Seb sent a rapid text. “Hey. Be…careful, I suppose. More careful. Don’t go off on your own this time.”

Wondering how Seb knew what had happened last time, Sherlock nodded, squeezed Seb’s hand, and turned and went. Alone. He had time before he met Lestrade’s team at the place set up to stake out the meeting Sherlock had worked out would occur between the remaining drugs trafficker and his distributor, whoever he or she was. He needed time, because he wanted to speak to John. 

And sitting on the steps of the Shaftesbury monument memorial fountain with some of his street network and using one of the prepaid mobiles he handed out on a regular basis for just such occasions enabled him to do that and not alert anyone tracking his phone.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” came John’s voice.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You’re _calling_. Not texting. What is it?”

“I just wanted to speak to you. Although I’m surprised you’re speaking to me, after what you said. After what happened. At the docks, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I wasn’t planning on it. Especially after that palaver in the hospital. Not to mention you only telling me half the story, keeping me in the dark and leaving me behind while you go rushing off to save the day. And get blown up. Well. Let’s just say being here, sorting through all the stuff that Gran thought important enough to hang on to all her life – not helped by Harry RESCUING STUFF I THROW OUT – made me think about what’s really important in life.”

Sherlock heard noises in the background. “So you’re still in Edinburgh. And have some neighbours over.”

“From the tenement, yeah. Some of them remember Harry and me as wee bairns although neither of us has been here for years. It’s weird. But yeah, I’ll take that apology now.”

“John, I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly. So poorly.”

“What? Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, you idiot.” He ignored John’s comment that that was more like it. “Are you coming back to London soon? You must be nearly finished there, and with all the legal aspect too.”

“Well, I’m…” The noise changed. John had shut himself in a cupboard. No, bathroom. Small bathroom. “One of the neighbours, well, not her, suggested I cover a few shifts at the General. Seems they need doctors, even surgeons, and I –”

“What’s her name? The blonde, no strawberry blonde you’re talking about. And she’s a doctor. No – nurse.”

“Mary. Charge nurse, yes.”

There was silence. Sherlock let the sound of the crowd and the rhythm of the streets fill it, charge him. 

“I thought Baker Street was still no-go, anyway. Where are you? Not Mycroft’s. Not Lestrade’s…”

“Sebastian’s.” Sherlock couldn’t let the pause ride.

“Sebastian? That wanker?”

“It’s pronounced _banker_ , John.”

“Was that – Sherlock, did you just make a _joke_?”

“I don’t know. Did I? Can’t I?” He aimed a lazy kick at Jez, who was imitating him.

“But he’s awful! A complete git!”

“Not complete. We were at –”

“Uni together. I remember. And he hated you. They all did.”

“He didn’t mean it like that. It was a thing we used to say. He accidentally sprang me from hospital so I’m staying there for a while. It’s…”

“I don’t think I trust him. Sorry, I just don’t. Just a feeling.”

“Explain.”

“Well, I did more thinking, just after, but then events moved on. But Edward Van Coon. He lost five million and paid it back, right, from his smuggling?”

“Yes, that’s right. And?”

“Well, how? How did he slip that money into the bank, making it look like he’d made a profit on trades which presumably didn’t happen? There must be checks and controls in place. You can’t just go tinkering around, covering your tracks and pumping cash in, to have flat books. Yeah, I’ve been studying. Your friend Sebastian is the director of the trading floor – he must have known what was going on. If not, he’s crap at his job. Just think about it.”

No. That wasn’t right. Was it? “I’ll look into it. Thank you, John.” 

“And now there’s thanks. Look, I’m no consulting detective, but did you get laid last night? Oh my God. You did! Who? Not –”

“I have to go. I’m after the one remaining gang member, then you’ll be able to come back. Bye.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

That might have come out in a rush, but Sherlock and his gang walked slowly back down the way he’d come until he stood in front of the white-painted corner of the hotel that was occupied by the bar Seb had mentioned. Sherlock looked in the window and sure enough Seb was ensconced at a table, grabbing up a handful of peanuts and talking animatedly to a small group. Sherlock knocked on the window, and Seb looked up. 

He looked intrigued and made the, ‘Can’t get up; trapped by tossers’ signal. Sherlock realised he didn’t know why he was there. Or if he did, asking Seb right here, right now if he’d been involved in and covered up his employee’s transgressions, or even texting him the question, wasn’t the correct approach. By now Seb’s companions were looking at Sherlock, discreetly or not. First things first. He blew a kiss through the glass and walked away. He noticed Seb had stood and was craning his neck to stare after the group.

Maybe Seb’s companions thought Seb was eyeing Sherlock up, something of that nature. Maybe he was. But Sherlock understood Seb was staring in bemusement at the gang of blokes Sherlock had with him, all of whom were kitted out in Seb’s clothes which Sherlock had distributed to them. Sherlock had had to select members tall enough to fit the clothes. Seb didn’t need them – Sherlock could tell from the fold patterns Seb had never even worn them once. Really, Sherlock was doing him a favour, curing him in this way of his compulsive buying, his comfort retail therapy, or whatever fancy name was in vogue for shopaholism this year.

He was also curing him of his habit of leaving large quantities of cash lying around the safe. Well, by curing, Sherlock meant he’d spent a wodge of the cash on hiring a yacht. At nearby Chelsea Harbour. 

“Are you sure this is the place?” Lestrade pointed a few hours later out of the blacked-out window of the boat’s small and darkened cabin. “I mean…”

Sherlock gave the signal for the driver to drift a little farther towards the luxury hotel at the head of the harbour. He shrugged as the sound of a glass smashing on deck told him he might have been a little excessive in the champagne-based refreshments he’d set up on deck for the group of ‘city-boy businessmen’ enjoying an evening drink and snacks on their yacht. Still, Seb had loads of champagne. And glasses. Had had.

“Pretty sure. Decoding the Cyrillic code gave these coordinates and a date and time. I believe the remaining gang member will make the drop-off. He’ll need money.”

“But where?” Lestrade indicated the hotel, the apartment blocks, the two office buildings and showrooms all around them on the bank of the exclusive enclosed body of water. “There’s the restaurant, yacht club, couple of evening dos going on at these showrooms…”

“And the Design club bar.”

Sally lurched over to them. “So you think it’s some la-di-da posho who’s running a supply network? Oh, no offence. Just they usually have servants do the graft for them?”

“Good point. As much as evidence suggest the product is being shipped for sale to this demographic, I’d be surprised to find a member of what the gutter press call ‘high society’ – no pun intended – meeting with a Chechynan trafficker and coordinating a distribution network.” He sighed in the silence which followed. “Sally. If you need to go and vomit over the side, please do so. No one thinks you’re any the poorer a police officer because you have motion sickness. I’m the world’s only consulting detective and I don’t deal well with explosions.” 

The narrow-eyed glare all around which greeted this was eventually broken by Sally stumbling off. 

“And not even high tide yet,” Sherlock commented, training the camera on the bank. A helicopter landed on the apartment building rooftop helipad, and he flinched, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. He had no plan in place for that. 

“Sherlock, I’m cutting you slack over this. But if – What’s that?”

“Only my phone,” Sherlock refused to take his eyes from the shore. He was absorbing the evening, understanding the patterns of light and noise, sensing and learning the movements, reading the ebb and flow on the bank, a tide separate from the more lulling one of the water. He was deaf to the clatter of the boat, even the beat and wash of the water against it. “Message. Could you get it?”

“I tell officers to turn their phones off on stakeout,” muttered Lestrade, but slid Sherlock’s phone from his jacket for him. “A text. Want me to…”

He interpreted the nod and read, “ _Want any takeout bringing home? JW._ Isn’t John away? Oh, it’s _SW_. My mistake. Wait. You’ve got a new John?”

“Not at all. Please reply, _Not if it’s some fusion crap. SH_. Could you?”

Out of the corners of his eyes he watched Lestrade comply. Watched him click to the previous message and his eyebrows pull up towards his hairline. 

“Er, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” He put weight into that to shut Lestrade up and gestured he wanted his phone returned.

Lestrade glanced around and spoke quietly. “So you’re… Who is he? Or she?”

“He.”

“Will we be meeting him?”

“You won’t like him. John doesn’t.”

“That doesn’t matter, as long as you do.” He spoke again, as the silence stretched, “I mean, he’s all right, isn’t he? Not, well, _dodgy_ , or anything?”

“John thinks he is.”

“But you don’t? Don’t you know? You mean, you’ve just met and –”

“I know him. I mean I did, before. Years ago. I…”

“Hey.” Lestrade was practically whispering in his ear now. “When this is over, what if I help you check him out? Then if he is up to anything, I’ll have a word with him. Show him the error of his ways.”

“I can do that myself.”

“True, but you can’t bang him up on suspicion of something, hold him in a stinking cell with a load of low-lifes for forty-eight hours and then do it again five days later.”

“Lestrade. You old romantic.” Sherlock pushed into the hand on his shoulder and back into the warm, solid man at his back. “Maybe. But we need to focus here.”

“Yeah. Not to be too delicate, but neither you nor I can afford to fuck another one up.”

“That’s delicate?” Sherlock asked as Sally rejoined them.

“I was taking a quick look around. There’s so much going on, so many people. How will we know who’s the mark?” she asked.

“We have to spot anomalies.” Sherlock gave an urgent signal for the boat to get nearer to shore. “Like that small group there entering that showroom that’s being refitted.”

“They’re architects, or interior designers. Look at their stuff.” Lestrade indicated the group who didn’t look that different from the people around, well-dressed, the lights picking out colours and glints on them.

“And I did some digging? This place is so toney they have strict times for viewings, or evaluations, or whatever? Even for official inspections, or people who wanna see the premises in evening light, or assess the noise and traffic or accesses, thinking of taking a design showroom, or holding some event there.”

“Good, Donovan,” said Lestrade. “I understand the management and directors here are cagey bastards.”

“Yeah and there’s a dress code for stuff like that. And look, you can see in that ground floor space they’re going into, they give them wine and cheese, try to disguise it’s anything as awful as ‘business’. You know, make it fit in with the feel of the place? There’s billionaires and celebrities live here, in those apartments.” 

“Architects, planners, designers who are possible clients; whatever, they’ve been joined by a builder, also lugging a huge box. He wasn’t originally part of the group. He came around the corner from Harbour House, just next to the Design Centre , look, and I suspect from the loading bay just behind it.”

“And?”

“Why didn’t he use the service entrance? There must be one. We’ll give him a few minutes before we go in for a glass of wine. Bring us to the berth. Now.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Ignoring the wooden walkway, Sherlock grabbed a metal lamp post, making its cluster of hanging white globes shake as he pulled himself over the chain to the coping stones of the shore. He evaded Lestrade’s grab for his shirt. 

“Let me go first. Follow me, carefully, but please…” He was saying please a lot lately and usually getting the same jerk-slapped-face-back reaction. Interesting. He strolled quickly over the cobbles of the roadway, waving as if greeting people near the hotel, skirting the curved glazed bricks of a flowerbed border which he hope Sally didn’t fall victim to in this glinting light in her high-heeled shoes.

He hung about outside the Design Centre, pretending to take a call on his phone, chortling and snorting with barks of laughter as he peered inside the lit building, the first of the three domes. The lobby seemed to be full of trees and stones, most of the latter egg shaped. He rolled his eyes. The viewing was taking place in a first-floor store, but of course the meet could be happening anywhere inside, and people were milling around just inside, taking photos and measurements.

Anomalies, he’d said to the police. Not long to wait for one: he guessed the burly, thick-set man in labourer’s clothes carrying a huge tool box crossing the Centre’s landscaped interior counted. Sherlock clapped mini binoculars to his eyes. Especially when the tattoo just visible on his neck proclaimed his Chechnyan mafia affiliations.

Sherlock cursed at the time he had to waste running around the outside of the buildings. It was still quicker than trying to blag his way in through the middle dome’s entrance and leaving through a concealed service entrance, he reasoned.

“Stop,” called Sherlock in Russian to the man ahead. The man didn’t. He sped up. “Following suspect to Harbour Avenue!” cried Sherlock into his phone to Lestrade, and presumably Sally, tracking him. Except he suddenly reasoned the man wouldn’t be going there. He’d be going to Imperial Wharf, as the mud on his shoes had indicated. Sherlock cursed himself for his slowness. Taking a sharp right he slid down the bank to the deserted building site that was currently the high-class development area. Sections of chain-link fence stood out starkly where lights picked them out. Monstrous shapes of equipment and installations loomed in the pools of darkness.

Sherlock was still slipping and sliding from his descent, sticking in the churned mud when something solid crashed out from behind a portacabin and banged right into him, the impact huge and blunt and sharp. He fell back against a bulldozer, his vision bisected by lights, his nose stuffed with the scent of earth and Thames, his breathing catching, more so as he realised why sharp. There was a slit in his shirt and presumably another in the flesh of his side, from where the blood was welling. Thank fuck for adrenaline: he felt no pain.

He slammed forwards, surprising the man who was slowed by the bulky box he carried. The man turned, held out his bloodied knife, his intent clear, his disinterest glaring. Sherlock opened his jacket, revealing the semi-automatic he’d helped himself to from Seb’s safe. Browning Hi-Power, which Seb would probably refer to as a Browning GP, if he were a gun snob.

“I will draw it, and I will use it,” he remarked. “I’m going to shoot you in the leg, incapacitate you enough so you’ll stand trial. And we’ll be taking that payment so your masters won’t get it.”

He watched the big man’s eyes widen. “You know what that means. I can see from the purple rose on your neck what your job is and who you work for. Without that cash to hand over, they won’t relocate you to roll out the same system elsewhere in Europe – Germany would be my guess. They’ll think you betrayed them. And you won’t be safe anywhere. Even in prison. There’s another way, of course. Tell us what we need to know and I’ll –”

The man dropped his metal box to the floor. He took a better grip on his knife, and Sherlock tensed, readying himself to draw. The man flexed, moved, and plunged the knife into his own stomach. The move was so swift, so unexpected Sherlock stared for a moment, watching the man sink to his knees, blood from a perforated lung bathing him, his wet gurgle and chokes accompanying him. Time slowed, then righted itself as the evening started again, pressed in on them.

“Bugger.” Sherlock buttoned his jacket over the gun – he really should see about acquiring his own – and his ruined shirt. He didn’t want questions about either as Lestrade, Donovan and two of the other handpicked officers who’d agreed to accompany them on the less-than official operation hurtled up to them, stopping hard at the sight. 

“It’s all right. He’s dead. Or near as makes no difference,” called Sherlock. “No, Sally. I didn’t. Even a rudimentary glance will tell you he committed suicide – soon – rather than face his employers, having failed.”

“Leave him to forensics!” called Lestrade as Sherlock approached the man. Corpse. 

“It,” he replied. “I’m testing a theory.”

“Christ! Did he just – Did you see that?” Sally’s cry was shrill. “ _Freak!_ ”

“Sherlock! Stop sniffing the – Are you _licking_ him? Bloody stop! _Jesus!_ ” It took a lot to disgust Lestrade.

“Diacetylmorphine hydrochloride.” Sherlock straightened from bending over the body. He slid a sly hand into its right pocket and pulled a small packet of white crystalline powder free. “The hydrochloride salt. Pure heroin.”

“Not coke?” Lestrade was puzzled.

“He’d know,” muttered Donovan.

“Yes. I would. I’m a chemist. No; this is heroin. The good stuff. Not stepped on. Roughly ninety percent of the world supply of opium and its derivatives, including heroin, is produced in Afghanistan and smuggled across Turkey into Europe. Cheer up; you’ve caught the last remaining UK member of the Chechnyan Connection network.”

Sherlock ignored the hubbub all around him of the body being radioed in to uniform and the speculation about the drugs. Heroin… He was digging deep, mentally cross-referencing, connecting, fusing… _Heroin_. 

(John’s latest medical journal: letter to editor on shortage of heroin in British institutions; article on success of pilot project of twenty people who, instead of taking oral methadone, were being treated with government-funded pharmaceutical heroin (diamorphine) in a groundbreaking experiment. The trial could spark the biggest shake-up in treatment since the start of oral methadone prescribing in the 1970s. Irrelevant?)

(Geographic magazine Seb was reading in the barber’s: article with photos on fungus that had blighted this year's poppy crop in Afghanistan, reducing it by half. Irrelevant?)

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Stop moving about!”

(Report in Barts: latest A&E usage statistics. Hospitals suddenly treating a growing number of drug users overdosed on adulterated heroin mixed with other substances such as sedatives, caffeine and bulking agents talcum powder or paracetamol. Result of a huge shortage of the opiate across the UK. Relevant?)

(Lab at Barts: Dr Beckford, toxicologist, mentioned his colleague at the drugs database at St George's had had about fifty recent requests to analyse adulterated heroin. Relevant?)

(Private e-mail from a US mate of Seb’s – yes to Seb; no he hadn’t opened that folder because of…anything – now working in the City, stunned to see rank and file employees using coke and so openly. Relevant?)

(Stupid lad’s mag – was Seb being ironic – magazine feature with stupid title: _Cocaine, the classless Class A drug._ No longer the champagne of illegal substances, you can practically pick it up at your off-licence. Or get it delivered. Everybody’s doin’ it. Handy and cheap. Weekend users. Relaxed police attitude – recreational cocaine use not been linked to crime. Relevant?)

_H. C. Not hot/cold, hurt/comfort._ “Heroin is the new cocaine,” he announced. “Coke has no cachet now; the It crowd are turning to heroin. It’s expensive and harder to get.”

“There’s...fashion in drugs?” Sally.

“Of course. There’s exclusivity, a sense of a private club – just like with the latest shoes.” He held up the small bag. “This is already crushed for insufflation. Ready to go.”

“Sniffing?” Lestrade was showing his age.

“Snorting. Inhaling. With a straw or a rolled-up banknote. Sterling silver, in the case of the former, and a one-hundred-pound note in the case of the latter.”

“They don’t do one-hundred notes?” Donovan was shaking her head.

“Royal Bank of Scotland. And to answer your next question, something to do with it bearing an image of Balmoral castle. I’ve forgotten the origins of the in-joke – I’ll find out.” He smiled, felt his skin wrinkling.

“Don’t people inject anymore?” asked one of the other officers. “Seconds, that takes for the rush and it’s a harder hit. I was in the drugs squad,” he finished quickly, glaring at his fellow officer. “Users try any method that won’t reduce the concentration of the drug by absorption.”

“Yes, injecting does override that pesky little presystemic metabolism problem,” agreed Sherlock. “But researchers have observed that patterns are shifting to snorting. Beautiful people don’t want to get their hands dirty preparing heroin for injection or smoking. They’re not squalid junkies.” 

He felt Lestrade’s glance, heard his sucked-in breath. Sherlock stood nearer to him so their shoulders touched. “Inhaling gives a fast onset with a rush. Fifteen minutes, maximum.”

“Well, thanks for the master class, I suppose,” said Donovan as she walked back to the harbour with Sherlock and Lestrade, leaving the other two with the body. “I can’t understand why anyone would take drugs, especially H.”

Sherlock shrugged. He gave her a hand up the bank and paused before answering “It’s initially more effective for blotting out problems.”

“And what problems would this lot have?” Donovan indicated the expensively-clad people flitting about the harbour, shrieking and baying under the twinkling lights. “Which designer handbag goes best with which outfit?”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

The gang of three stopped short at the committee waiting for them, seeing fury in the eyes raking over their less-than pristine appearances. Sherlock flicked his gaze over the line of people. Managers. Directors. Carefully suited heavies. Dull.

“What the hell is going on?” collided with, “Who the fuck are you?” and Lestrade and Donovan looked from one angry man to the other, obviously wondering who to answer. “How the hell dare you disturb our residents and guests?” followed, hounded by, “I demand you account for this outrageous –”

“If anyone’s breaching the peace it’s you lot.” Sherlock was bored now. He’d raised his voice before letting it trail off, and saw the group react to his cut-glass tones. “Please don’t attract attention to us. Our jobs rely on us being inconspicuous, and you’re the ones causing a scene, not my guests.” He sidestepped all attempts to usher them into the Chambers offices. “My guests, on my yacht, at my party I’m throwing to celebrate the sixth anniversary of my consultancy work with New Scotland Yard. Erm, perhaps you’d oblige with your warrant cards? Thank you, DI Lestrade and DS Donovan.”

He let the management suits ruffle a little more. “In fact, you should be thanking them. They saw a wanted criminal on your property – awfully lax security you seem to have – put down their Veuve Cliquot and went to investigate. Some of our fellow guests are still there, waiting for uniformed officers. Bloody awful turn of events. Real busman’s party.”

“Here’s my card. If we could have your business cards? We’ll be setting up questioning tomorrow. Here or down the station. Your choice,” was Lestrade’s contribution, and within minutes they were out of the corporate clutches.

“We’ll have to apply for a search warrant,” Donovan commented.

“Er, Sherlock, your other ‘guests’?” asked Lestrade. “Would they be still on the boat drinking the Verve Clicko, or am I right in thinking –”

“That they were ordered, along with others stationed at the quay, the pier, the car park and the entrance to discreetly tail whoever left abruptly at the time the disturbance happened?” Sherlock’s grin matched Lestrade’s, and even Donovan gave a reluctant smile. “No point thinking the people still in the Design Centre are guilty or that’s there anything stashed on the premises.”

“Still, I’d like to get a load of uniform in, turn the place over, give those toffee noses something to think about,” said Lestrade, frowning as he looked back at the group staring after them.

“Count me in. See the way that blonde was sneering at me?” replied Donovan.

“Far be it from me to question police procedures,” said Sherlock, and his companions made scoffing noises.

“So, any of that Verve Clicky stuff left?” They stopped and looked at Lestrade. “Well, the boat’s booked, and…can I keep this blazer and cravat? I’ve never had one before.”

“You’re lucky you got kitted out. I had to provide my own clothes,” answered Donovan.

“Sally, don’t tell fibs. They’re your mother’s. Oh, come come. Those power shoulders scream 1985.”

Donovan acknowledged the hit. “Yeah. She offered me hoop earrings as well.”

There was even some champagne left.

“Greg. Stop worrying.” Sherlock handed over a flute. “I’ll get them. We’ll get them. We’re near the end. We’ll smash the ring, the line, whatever. Trust me?”

“Well, he was right about this shampers being nice. What’s the difference between the yellow and the pink?” was Donovan’s assessment.

It was after midnight when they got turned off the boat. Sherlock took his leave.

“Oi, sunshine. Not so fast. Bag, if you please.” Lestrade laid a heavy hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Inspector. I thought we were friends.” Sherlock grinned. “Already in your pocket.”

“What? That could have…Sherlock!”

The road outside Seb’s house bore evidence of a couple of cars having parked for a while and recently gone. Sherlock knew guests had been expected: the living room had been wined and cheesed, presumably to show off the paintings. Whoever had collected them, and he rather thought Seb’s mother, wasn’t going for corporate art but had a thing about works of art with horizontal lines. It made for a rather striking collection, and also made Sherlock and, he thought Seb, prefer the cosier garden room.

“Honey, I’m home.” He stood in the doorway and looked at Seb. “Awww. Were you waiting up?”

“Pass. I thought you might be back in time to meet my guests.”

“Did they prefer the Mondrian to the Riley and not know Scully at all?”

“Pretty much. Have a good stakeout?”

“Pretty much.” Sherlock flopped heavily onto the end of the sofa. “Oh bugger. I think I left the key in the door.”

“Get your pipe and slippers, Pops. I’ll go.”

Sherlock used Seb’s absence to replace his gun and close the safe, having to lean against the bookshelf after. He was done in.

“Fuck!” Seb was in the doorway, pointing at him.

“You silver-tongued Lothario. I’m knackered. Stakeout, and all that. Later, perhaps?”

“No, that!” Seb came up and pointed more directly.

“Oh, as I said, stakeout and all that. He had a knife. Not fair, really.”

“Christ, Belle, don’t you need a doctor?” Was Seb pale? (Pale in hospital – haemophobia?)

“No. It’s just a scratch. I didn’t even feel it.”

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“There’s a first-aid kit in the cloakroom along here.”

“No; it’s in the lab. Laundry room. Scullery. Thing.” He let Seb usher him downstairs. “I needed alcohol.”

“Oh I see. Bored housewives have their gin, and bored scientists pure alcohol.” In the repurposed utility room, Seb smoothed Sherlock’s jacket off his shoulders and started quickly unbuttoning his shirt.

“You animal,” said Sherlock approvingly.

“You will apologise to Beamish and Murphy and Crawford for that remark.”

“Sorry, Beam – Crawford?” He stilled Seb’s hand dabbing at him.

“She can’t be Portia. Wherever did you get that idea. We have to keep the theme going.”

“Sorry, cats. Sorry, shirt.” Sherlock made a puppy-dog face at the ruined garment. “Your shirt too.”

“Lord. My name’ll be mud in Jermyn Street. Again,” muttered Seb. “Mate, I’m no sawbones – don’t even know what that means, actually – but this needs stitches.” He looked around as if a suture kit or the phone number of a dressmaker would be suspended in the air somewhere.

“Dull. My tetanus is up to date, so all we have to do is I press it together and you stick dressings over it. Go on. Please.”

Seb did his best, as Sherlock shivered in the cool air. Seb finally looked up. “Is this” – he patted the bulging, overpacked and overtaped dressing – “the same as these?” These were the one small patch of hyperpigmentation, an instantly recognisable pop scar, and the thin, tiny cut marks, no longer red but albicant. “From the same place, I mean?” He stroked the blemishes as he asked, then looked up.

“That’s… No. Well, initially, perhaps, when I started working as a consulting detective.” Sherlock had known this would come, but not so soon, and found it tough to answer. “This was closure. I want this case finished.”

“I would have thought there’d be others to do the, well, grunt work, the chasing, and so on?”

“It’s part of it.”

“Closure. You said. I understand. Just, I would have expected you’d like the cerebral challenge more.”

“I’m not too proud to do the dirty work. The legwork. I don’t just sit like a spider spinning his web in the back room.”

“I see.”

He probably did. God knew he’d listened to Sherlock moaning enough after being forced to visit or even speak to Mycroft. Seb passed him a sweatshirt from the drier and Sherlock laughed to see it was an ancient university association football club one. They’d both worn them, slightly customised to make a rude acronym to piss Bill off when he got on their nerves. Neither of them had played football, of course. Seb stilled in his packing away of the supplies, and Sherlock watched the narrow-eyed look take over his face.

“He had a knife and you didn’t. What did you have, apart from your still-boyish looks?”

“Pass?”

“Hmm. If I were to open the safe, would I find my gun gone?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Recently fired?”

“Seb.” Sherlock made a pained face.

“Okay, removed and replaced exactly where it was?”

“How many passes are we allowed?”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock!” A black cat jumped off the draining board and ran to the study. “You can tell me things. Don’t you trust me?”

“P – I don’t know. I don’t usually. On principle. You know that.”

There was a silence which Seb filled by putting washed-up glasses away.

“I assume you helped yourself to some cash.”

Interesting. Not many people would have taken that tack.

“Lots, actually.”

Seb hung the towel on the Aga rail, still not looking at Sherlock. “Did you get a receipt for whatever you spent it on?”

Did Seb assume it had been drugs? Frowning, Sherlock plucked the blood-stained invoice from his jacket pocket.

“A _yacht_? You hired a bloody _yacht_ for the evening? A van with blacked-out windows not good enough for you, I suppose, you stakeout snob. Christ knows what my accountant will make of this.”

“It’ll clean. And I’ll repay you.”

“No, no; let’s consider it my contribution to civism. Public safety. Making the Thames waterway a safer place.”

“I could arrange for you to get a certificate from the dishy DI.”

Seb wasn’t smiling, so Sherlock decided to get it all out. “You were right earlier. Those were your clothes.”

“Some sort of what, sting operation?”

“Yes.”

“Look, Sherlock, just tell me things, all right? I don’t like being kept in the dark, or taken for granted, or taken the piss out of. I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock watched him walk away. He was suddenly exhausted and cold. Beamish came in the cat door and turned his back on Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged. If he’d pushed things too far or too hard or been testing things, well, tough. Wasn’t it? He pottered around for a while, checked his work and updated his notes, drank some water. He opened the ’fridge to find recently added items – a doner kebab and a packet of fish and chips. Well, he’d told Seb he didn’t like tricked-up fusion cuisine. He imagined the faces of Seb’s well-to-do dinner companions, waiting while Seb popped to a greasy kebab van and then a chip shop. He tried to settle in front of his laptop but gave it up and went upstairs to bed. After a while of lying there, he gave that up too.

“Seb?”

“Huh? Y’okay?”

“Fine. Look, I’m not good with…things, but I’m…” _What?_

“Missing Raj, your stuffed tiger?” Seb raised a corner of the duvet, and grinning, Sherlock slid in. “You just like my ’leccy blanky. Admit it,” yawned Seb, arranging Sherlock into a half cuddle that didn’t press on his side and settling back to sleep.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

“What are your plans for today?” asked Sherlock as they sat outside on the smokers’ patio, eating a microwaved kebab for breakfast.

“Oh. Do you have to go out?”

Sherlock eyed him. “What time is the doctor coming?”

“Belle. As if. It’s actually a sexy nurse. Sorry. Look, just in case? Humour me? I know I’m not the world’s most competent sticker of torn flesh together, and I’d hate –”

“You know, my parents have never actually sued anyone? I doubt they’d start with you. Am I interrupting your weekend plans? What is all the rage now? Antiquing? Rollerblading in Hyde Park?”

“I have to work,” replied Seb when he’d finished laughing and flicking bits of shredded lettuce at Sherlock. 

“You’re going in to the City?”

“No. Can’t. I promised Pa I’d never be in the office on a Saturday, in case of a repeat of the ’93 Bishopsgate bombing. He says we all run weekday risks, can’t avoid it, nature of the beast, explosives included, but no point making oneself a target at the weekend, when they – whoever they are – tend to detonate.”

Sherlock briefly wondered if Seb had any normal relatives at all. “Well, I’m working too.”

“Not, well, dangerous work?”

“No, Seb, it’s my paper round. This is me too tired to roll my eyes. Just popping into the station, give my jolly old statement, what. Male sure all our statements agree. Last night’s operation was a little…clandestine, I suppose one could say.”

“Lord. Let’s just hope the target is not clandestinely after you.”

“He’s dead. Didn’t I say? Last night.”

“What? What happened?”

“He killed himself rather than be taken into custody.”

“In front of you? You saw it?”

“What.”

“Don’t you need, well, counselling or something?”

“God no. Why do you say that?”

“Just thought it was the done thing. We got all this trauma counselling at Shad, after it became known about Eddie, so…”

Sherlock took a few seconds to formulate the best approach. He petted the current cat, taking no notice of the, “no feeding at table,” cries as he thought.

“About the fallout from that business. I suppose you had to give statements and so on?”

“Yeah, thanks for that, mate.”

“Didn’t anyone ask you about how Van Coon was able to pay back what he’d lost on trading through the money he made smuggling? The two seem worlds apart. I wondered…”

“Don’t remind me. I launched an internal enquiry. God, imagine if he’d been laundering money through Shad. He’d had a series of losses and covered his early ones in exchanged traded funds – unhedged trades – by falsifying bets on index futures trades in the opposite direction.”

“How? What about internal controls? Risk systems managers? You’ve always been strict about that.”

“Sadly, the desk manager wasn’t. Wanted to have the best-performing team and turned a blind eye. Pushed it through the risks systems managers too. Cut them in. God. I had to put in the hours, delve deep. Couldn’t trust anyone. Got a couple of specialists in from NY on the downlow. Paid myself.”

“Wow. That’s –”

“Tell me about it. Rooted out several bad weeds. I wasn’t popular, not when I asked some well-established names to leave or be exposed and prosecuted. So glad they didn’t call my bluff; didn’t have a clue about how to do that. Or if I could. Imagine the atmos. there. I was even called a traitor. It was, well, brutal, for all concerned.”

“You should have said something. I’d have helped.” He reached out and took Seb’s hand, uncurled it from the fist it had become on top of the table.

“Maybe I should have. Would have liked to’ve had you around. It was good for one thing, showing me how naïve I’d been, imagining everyone had my values, that they loved the analysing, the studying, the market making. Also showed me I got the cleaning house gene from my pop. He rescued PKL, turned it from a string of brokers floundering in the early nineties into an investment bank. I had it drummed into me. Do you know, I think my first words were risk management and cost control?”

“Didn’t he auction off the bank’s wine cellar and do away with butlered luncheons?”

“Yes, despite Grandfather telling him the butler was necessary as he was very good at discreetly managing inebriated guests! Grandfather called him a class traitor for saying good husbandry was better than global imperialism.”

“Did your mother really have to put on a British accent when she talked to her father-in-law?”

Seb smiled. “Yes. He said he simply couldn’t understand Colonial voices. No disrespect.”

“So the housecleaning prompted all the security.” Sherlock elbowed his leftovers closer to Murphy, who seemed to like yogurt sauce.

“Yah. Peace of mind. And some guards are hunky.”

“Oh, you get to select them? From a catalogue?”

“Online. I have my own password and area on their Web site.” Seb nodded approvingly, sticking his tongue into the corner of his mouth. 

“Talking of, I hope your password at work is more secure than the one for your PC here – wordpassSeb’s? You haven’t changed it since uni.”

“I have so. Sometimes I add 999 on the end. Okay, point taken. Have a good snoop?”

“Pretty much. Some files were locked though.” Seeing Other People?

“And they’re staying that way, mate.” 

“Game on,” replied Sherlock with a grin.

They both looked up at the ring on the doorbell.

“Aha. Sexy nurse alert.”

“It is a male nurse, I trust?”

Seb’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry. Forgot you were so picky.”

It didn’t take long at the station for last night’s team, some of whom were rather the worse for wear, to ensure their stories were straight. Lestrade and Donovan were still riding out all the “lucky coincidence, running into the one remaining criminal they were chasing” comments when Sherlock left. He had to link up with his network, who had followed four people who’d left at the time of the chase. People slipping away when something untoward happened was understandable enough. No one wanted to get involved, particularly not with the police. 

Only two of the people who’d rushed off had had large packages or boxes with them. Sherlock studied the photos which had been taken by his homeless trailing the woman back to her small Chelsea showroom. She’d been at the viewing because she needed bigger premises for her business: she was a designer of statement lighting synonymous with classical elegance and fine, hand-crafted quality. Lovely. One of the Irregulars produced a creased but still glossy magazine for Sherlock to read an article on the woman who seemingly took inspiration from period architecture and decor, and whose creations embraced chandeliers, lanterns, ceiling, wall and table lamps, or bespoke designs to be commissioned. 

And a glance at more recent gossip magazines showed it wasn’t only her commitment to elegant lighting, handmade and finished, and of superior quality which necessitated her needing a bigger and more prestigious showroom than her current premises in a pedestrianised mews, charming though it was. No; it was probably her skyrocketing popularity after she’d done up the rooms at KP that the newlyweds were going to occupy. Helped to be the friend of the brother of one. Big leap from lighting design to interior design, thought Sherlock. Although having all the wall and floor coverings and furniture right on hand at the Harbour Design Centre could only help. 

“How do PAs speak? And what’s it mean?” enquired his faithful female assistant when asked to be one and announce Sherlock would be popping in. Sherlock smiled. She’d do fine. And she did.

“Sebastian. Mate. Not too busy, are you? Fancy going undercover and joining me in a little job? Now-ish? And can you power-gay it up a bit?” 

“ _Three months’ wait?_ We’re condemned to live in a mismatched hell for _three months_ before you can even look at the house?” Seb had power-gayed it up to turbo. Matching cravat and silk square? Really. And why had he shoved a pack of Marlboro into Sherlock’s shirt pocket, leaving just a strip of red showing? Were cigarettes the new hanky code? 

“There are other designers, you know.” The woman shook out her long blonde mane and started to gather up her appointment book and pens.

“No. It has to be you. The way your carpets don’t fight against the staircase but let it stand out without vanishing into the background. It’s an art. A magic. Katie said so, and having seen them, I agree. It takes a genius to know when a wood floor needs a rug and when it needs leaving be.”

“Yes, the value of restraint. Less is so much more.” Sherlock hoped he wasn’t embarrassing Seb.

“Our house must showcase our relationship.” Seb whipped out a hanky – which matched his silk square – and dabbed at an eye. 

“You’re very kind. And understanding.”

“So are you, Tally. You completely understand that a residence, however much a showroom and used for corporate as well as private entertaining, is not a commercial establishment.” 

“Darling. We haven’t booked the church. We can wait, have the reception at the house! I’m getting so excited by these swatches!” said Sherlock. “And what about the garden, if it’s really summer by then?”

“Oh, my clever little angel! Do you do outdoor furniture and garden design?” Seb grabbed at more pictures. 

Sherlock paced around, explaining he was too excited to sit still. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, maybe anyone exhibiting long- or short-term side effects of heroin, but he knew when he’d found nothing. Despite the helped blonde hair and tan, the huge handbag, and tiny skirt over thick tights, the bobo chic in general, Tally was no young and trendy social butterfly: questioning had revealed how many hours she’d put into building up her business, how hard she studied and worked, how much she travelled. The tiny shop wasn’t a hubbub of activity with hoards of strangers milling in and out at all times.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

“Anything?” Seb muttered out of the side of his mouth as soon as they stood in the mews. Sherlock shook his head.

“Could’ve told you that, with her moving in those circles. Now, if it’d been someone connected to the younger brother… Hey, will I have to get the house done up?”

“No. Just call her in a month and say we’ve split up and you’re selling the house.”

There was a hard silence, and Sherlock continued, “Didn’t know you were conversant in design-speak. You spend too much time at the hairdressers, you know.”

“Maybe, but look, Ma, no split ends,” replied Seb absently, examining the picture frames in a shop window. “No, I dip into a lot of magazines left lying around at work. And I’m rusty now, but I was fluent in interiors-talk when I was married.”

“Lord. Is that what passes for dinner-table conversation?” Sherlock lifted a hand to his brow to cut through the shaft of sunlight and examine Seb.

“Umm. That and to make contributions when dragged around every furniture and fittings shop in the borough at the weekend.”

“Good Lord. I know why I never married.”

“Yeah, because you’re scared of breasts.”

“Am bloody not.”

“Are to. You cower like a baby when they stick out and you whimper like a little bitch when they flop around.”

“Why, you –”

Sherlock suddenly pressed Seb against a tropical tree in a tub and grabbed him, kissing him. Seb pressed and kissed back, and it became a snog. When they broke apart, Seb raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“The design shop assistant. Standing in the doorway, staring,” Sherlock murmured.

“Still looking?”

“Umm. Called the other one out now.”

“Oh. In that case…” Seb initiated another kiss, just as fervent and heartfelt as the first. His mobile beeped a message, and he broke the embrace as he examined it. “I have to go. Fortnightly wearing of the hair shirt is about to commence.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, his eyes on Seb’s. “Oh. Aged parents visit. Still in Parsons Green?”

“Umm. Pa still lording it over ma at being ahead of the trend and acquiring such a stonking great property for a snip. Bollocks to a poky house in Holland Park, he said to me at one point. Well, this is me off for lunch –”

“Duke on the Green.”

“Mate! So last year. You’ll be accusing me of frequenting the Sloaney Pony next. The Mitre is the venue of choice for the sighs over my poor performance, career wise and romantically. I can do both their parts now.”

“Not that poor a performance.” Sherlock tried a Seb elevator look, flicking a lascivious gaze from head to toe.

“Cheers. Want to come along?”

“What, run interference? ‘Here’s Sherlock. His choices are really poor’?”

“No, and I don’t need a reference either. Just thought you might like to meet the folks.”

“Oh.” It was Sherlock’s turn to read a text message. “No – still on the clock. More investigating, AKA grunt work, to do. Is the guard going with you?”

“Crikey, I don’t have one at the weekend. It’s triple time, mate! I just try to think everyone’s in a good mood at the weekend and not indulging in nefarious acts, you know? Call me an optimist, but…”

Sherlock figured Seb was probably lying, but indulged him. 

“So, have you finished needing me?” asked Seb, squinting against the sun and not looking at Sherlock.

“Oh, I wouldn’t imagine so. I’ll call later, if I may.”

He was glad he hadn’t involved Seb in this next stage, and certainly didn’t want to call him, because, as things turned out, he met up with a very significant figure from Seb’s, and to a lesser extent, his, past. Other members of his network had tailed a man who’d left the Design Centre yesterday, followed him to his house, and others this morning had followed him to what was his place of work, an event caterers and party planners, one whose Web site promised their unforgettable events were due to their outstanding conception, flawless planning, sensational food and impeccable service. Oh, they had their own world-renowned mixologist, too.

And later, yet another homeless had tailed the man, Rufus Chatfield, from PartyTalk – did everyone work on Saturdays now? – on the Fulham Road to an address on a street quite near. It was long road, full of boutique galleries and tiny niche antique and antiquarian book and print shops. There was one Prussian blue shop front which seemed a mix of everything, and it was here, peering through the huge square windows which wrapped around the end of the street, Sherlock saw…Allegra.

Dressed in a cowl-necked jersey dress and almost knee-length boots, Sebastian's ex-wife was as slim as the last time he’d seen her. (No coat or bag; papers and pen: not a visitor.) He pushed open the tiny door between the ancient bookshop and the shiny windows, hiding a grin as he saw Allegra’s long chestnut-brown hair was now centre parted and left alone. He remembered her and her glossy posse packmates all dipping their heads then running their left hands through their straightened locks to flip them back from right to left. Seb had said it was the female equivalent of a balls scratch, and just as one bloke having a rummage set off a Mexican wave among all the males present, one hairflipee would take up where the previous left off, making a ripple around the females in a room. 

“Sherlock Holmes!” And she was there with the two kisses as ever, but a hug, which he didn’t expect. Same perfume; no muguet left, just the merest ghost of lilly of the valley and base notes of jasmine, so not reapplied all day. Same rusty bronze tint to her cheeks and lips, reapplied before lunch. “What are you doing here? You didn’t come to see me?” Same slight husk to the voice.

“I didn’t even know you’d be here!” He ramped it up a little, tried a hug.

“I work here, for my…clichés. What brings you here to my neck of the clichés? God, that’s addictive, isn’t it? I can see why you two would do it all the time. So, tell me everything!”

“I was trying to find a present for my brother. He’s celebrating his promotion. He’s into vintage Americana so I’ve been trying to find something by Legrande? Well, any period black-and-white photographs, really?” His voice fell easily into the lazy, priviledged upspeak pattern. “Then Gerry at the Silva along there suggested I try Grants’s – I thought he meant the musty bookshop; had no idea you were now a gallery! Well done, you.”

“A boutique photography gallery, thank you very much! replied Allegra. “I bet I can help. Tell me about your brother. Tell me about you! What have you been up to? Have you time for a cup of coffee?”

She overrode Sherlock’s protests and passed her papers over to a younger acolyte, obviously some trainee or work-experience person. There were more people, not clients, milling about. The office she took him into was tiny and cramped by books and files. She’d read History of Art, Sherlock remembered, like most rah girls, but he thought she’d got more than the standard 2:ii. The glint he could make out at the neckline of her dress was two rings on a thin chin, he realised, scanning the lines on her face, the shadows under her eyes. 

“I know you were married,” he started. “I didn’t get the invitation.”

She placed arty mugs on a tray. “Would you have replied? Would you have come? To see Sebby marrying me?”

_Sebby._ God. 

“To see him marrying anyone? It hurt him, your absence. Your silence.”

Well, she’d got blunter over the years. No stuffed teddies in this office either. Sherlock inclined his head. “Two sugars, please. Thanks. How did you two get together?” He wondered if she’d answer or not give him the satisfaction. No; she would. He could see the need to talk. How – boast?

“It was this whirlwind affair, about eight years ago. We ran into each other out of the blue at an anniversary thing and just spent the whole time laughing and being silly with each other. It was…lovely, actually. Then Sebastian called, said he’d been thinking about me ever since that. We met for dinner, caught up properly as we hadn’t seen each other in a while, chatted all night, actually, then had supper…”

“On the same night?”

“No, you clot! A different day. Same week though. Then a few more outings, and one day, roller skating of all things, actually, he said, ‘You know, we should get hitched.’ Just like that. I said yes, we should, and that was that. Parents rejoicing, both sets, friends half-happy, half-amazed… All a rush. We didn’t…” He hand shook as she drank her coffee, and she brought her free hand up to support it. “Everyone was getting married, you remember, about then. So, I suddenly had a new house to do up, and…” She shrugged. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, and meant it, even though he wasn’t sure for what.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

“What about you? Anyone? Since –”

“No. I thought a while back there might be, but it wasn’t.” He stopped, not having meant to say even that. He’d forgotten the power of her sherry-brown eyes, her trust in people, her need to see the best in them.

“I remember Victor sniffing around you. You know, I always thought there was something off about him. Apart from him imitating Sebastian, and Bill to a lesser extent, I mean. He seemed, I don’t know how to define it, but I never felt okay with him.”

Sherlock stared at her, startled, his hands automatically scratching down his arms as he processed this. Would asking people’s, normal people’s, opinions have prevented so much hurt? “Tell me about this place,” he said, his voice losing most of its forced bounce.

“Oh, it came about after the divorce. Sebastian was generous, of course, when we sold the house. The owner of the, what was it you said, musty bookshop, James, was an old friend of the family. He’d been left some books and mementos by Steve Lascelles, the American photographer, and the crate contained a whole stack of his photos from the 50s and 60s! Amazing examples of his early work, really showing his influences and his later themes.”

“Oh, so that’s the permanent exhibition in the other room we passed?”

“Hold your horses, Speedy GonHolmes; I’m getting there. James had no idea what to do with them, so the suggestion came about I put some cash in – his business wasn’t doing too well – take the lease on these premises, make an exhibition and attract temporary exhibitions of other photographers. Oh, I’ve had some sculptors too.” She laughed. “But the focus is photography. Ha-ha. Did you see Directing the Diva, the exhibition of Anders’ studies of his leading ladies? Then we always have the summer show, showcasing the work of young photographers, you know, rising stars? And you must have heard of the Physics of Light exhibition, where the photographer showed different images of the same subject, using different techniques of light and sound? Bit noisy that actually.”

Sherlock put down the pile of catalogues and press releases he was accumulating. “So you’re setting up a new exhibition right now? All the bustle and movement…”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten you did that! How could I! That’s a sideline. Would you believe the gallery has become a very popular events venue? Yah, absolutely. James’s son Jamie was at school with a bloke called Rufus – I’ll take you say hi to everyone in a sec – from a party company thing. Yeah, canapés and cocktails. I know.”

“And?” Sherlock reined in his impatience as best he could.

“Well, I don’t just mean vernissages or opening night. There are private parties here as well, in the main exhibition room you entered through. It’s become quite the place to start the evening off. Rufus says it’s the picture windows: people can see and be seen. I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re right in the heart of the borough. I suppose the young crowd meet here and decide where to go on to? You must be busy.”

“Or, there’s a do at least three times a week. Rufus and Jamie said we should put in a bar or a café, make a space for sitting and drinking or whatever, but I’m resisting.” 

“I see. Oh! What if I were to hold my brother’s congratulations party here? Mother said I should fix something up. Then he’d be able to really appreciate the Lascelles. If you allowed access. I can see it now, tailor-made for him: dull speeches, traditional drinks, tame snacks…”

“Oh, come and talk to Rufus. He’ll sort it out.”

“Not Jamie? Oh. Are you and he…” He knew the answer already; she’d met friends for lunch, touched up her makeup for them, not after for anyone else.

“No. God no. I have an ‘older men’ thing, and he’s younger than I am, for one. My mother’s pushing it, of course, despite that, but he’s not interested in me.”

“Who’s taking my name in vain?”

Sherlock flicked his glance over the figure twitching and scratching uncoordinatedly as he lounged in the doorway. It didn’t need much more than a glance to tell him everything he needed to know about the thin, carelessly dressed man with spiky blond hair and constricted pupils who was swallowing around a dry mouth. The most important piece of information being that he was a heavy heroin user, if not an addict. 

“Jamie, this is an old friend. He’s thinking of holding a do for his brother here. His brother’s a fan of Lascelles and –”

“I heard my name.” This was harder.

“Is everything all right?” asked Allegra kindly. “I was just saying you weren’t interested in me.”

“Why? Is he interested in you?”

“Well, that’s …”

“What Allegra is too well-mannered to say is that I’d be more likely to be interested in you. Were you but brunet,” said Sherlock, deciding then and there he’d see this idiot imprisoned.

“Oh, Jamie, Sherlock’s a de –”

“Devil for brunets, yes indeed.” He butted in. “Sorry.” He eyed the man’s flaxen locks.

“Right.” The man left.

“Is he a partner?” Sherlock demanded.

“He took over from his father, who died recently. He puts cash in, I think. He took over the books. I don’t even see them anymore. The place has done very well, actually, since he took over. I’m actually amazed.”

Sherlock looked at her, feeling – was that pity? – as he contemplated what was to come. And all she’d been through already for no other reasons than peer pressure, parental pressure, society’s expectations, or whatever. And the fact that although tall, slim and dark-haired, and intelligent, perceptive and even interesting, she wasn’t and couldn’t ever be Sherlock. It wasn’t fair. 

“This is terrible! I’ve been wittering on, boring you, when I want to know what you’re up to!” Allegra said suddenly.

“You’re not boring me.” Sherlock replaced his mug on the tray.

“In the past, I know you would have said if I was. You did, often enough. Now, I’m not sure.”

“I would. What I’m up to? Well, I’m outlining my bio-organic and biomolecular thesis for my DPhil. I didn’t go on from my PRS; they just gave me an MSc for research I’d done so far when I…left. I abandoned it, but now…” He only realised after he’d said it that it was true. Huh. Was there a way to credit Beamish, he wondered. He shook that, and Allegra’s congratulations off. “Could I look around? I’d need to know what exhibition you’d be holding in a month. Can’t risk exposing a load of mummified civil servants to anything racy. And I’d better check the chairs are strong enough for their cushioned backsides. Oh, and make sure the passageways have enough room for them all to waddle around.”

“You’ll be measuring the size of the loos next! He can’t have got _that_ much fatter.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll have to check out the bathrooms. You have no idea.” He felt his crazed grin slip out and held it back. 

And he flitted about, seeing how the corridors and tiny rooms would make ideal meeting places, exchange places…

“That’s a tiny studio flat.” Allegra came across him peering up the poky wooden staircase. “It’s Jamie’s bachelor pad now. I lived there for a while, after, well. Come on, Rufus is all agog for you.”

Having her trot out his cover story was wonderful, Sherlock thought. Rufus the events manager was not that surprisingly, red-haired, and confident as he unobtrusively directed his waiters and staff. Slightly further down the social scale than Jamie, for instance, judged Sherlock, playing the game from an early age, leveraging his scholarship to prep school into one for one of the minor public schools where he’d met a fair few of the people expected later. 

“Oh, I think an event for a load of stodgy parliamentary procedures advisors wouldn’t be quite your thing?” probed Sherlock. “Your parties seem so, well, glitzy, and more geared to the trendier crowd, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, we cater the spectrum. It’s not all high-octane shop or book launches or themed fund-raising evenings or hedonistic corporate bashes. We do more sober private parties, lunches, dinners, birthdays…”

Sherlock led him into listing some of the venues the company was trusted to use and some society balls and VIP parties they’d put on, in London and in Cannes.

“Wow. Isn’t this pig-and-swill do a little, well, little?” he asked thickly as he sampled a truffled ball of something.

“Oh, anything for Allegra. Friend of a friend.”

“But it’s not her party, is it.”

Rufus looked rather sharply at him. “Fine – these small-beer start-the-night-right meet-and-greets get our name out there for bigger fish, I’ll grant you. But the fact her venue is much requested for these sorts of dos is a great boost for her business. I’m sure she’s happy with the fees she receives from PartyTalk, not to mention all the foot traffic, the column inches, increased sales, revenue…”

“And these are delicious! Look, I’m hogging you. Allegra’s insisted I stay, see how these bashes work. Can I find you later, firm things up? And steal another of these?” It was some sort of Scotch egg, he decided, spitting it out as unobtrusively as he could. 

He was less sneaky as he let himself be seen measuring up, and exclaiming over the black-and-white permanent exhibition his brother would love. He was clandestine in his taking of photos, particularly of two of the waiters, men Allegra said were always there, holding quick and inconspicuous exchanges of small bags for cash. As he’d suspected, Rufus was happy to delegate and plan, but not sully his hands with the actual exchange. Except when it came to supplying Jamie.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

Sherlock was detesting every second of the press and swirls of people arriving and interacting. He was however detesting even more pretending to be interested in some idiot – Sean? Shane? Simon? – as an excuse for hanging around. The idiot in question was now raking a hand through his slicked-back dark hair as he leaned forward on the high bar stool to listen to Sherlock, perched flirtatiously on his. And second now he’d ask the idiotic question –

“What do you do?”

“As little as possible,” Sherlock quipped, running a lazy tongue over lips he’d bitten to plump them up. “Or as much as possible. Depends who you ask. The wrinklies would say the former. I argue for the latter.”

“Yeah, I’m not following?” All that hair gel was obviously bad for the brain.

“The family pay me not to embarrass them? A deal, you know?” Sherlock inched his stool nearer as a large handbag hooked carelessly over some other idiot’s arm pressed into the back of his neck.

“Oh, right. Absolutely. Haven’t met you before?”

“Yah, I ran a bit…wild in my…wild youth. Got sent out to SA?”

“Oh, yah, the accent.”

Sherlock wasn’t even attempting one. “Well, back now. Came into a trust, can’t stop me.” How louche could he go?

“Looking to party hard, dude?”

“Always have, bro. But here… Talk in Cape Town was all how tame the London scene is?”

“Well, this is lame.” The bloke swept a hand around in a circle. “But it’s just a starting point?”

“Yah? Talk in the Sky and the Sugarhut at my leaving dos was all how stuffy the scene is here. How there’s even a shortage of blow and snow. Excuse the colonial terminology. Not back long enough to update. But from what I see, it’s true.” He made a couple of gestures so the idiot would understand.

“Oh, there’s a shortage, for some. But stuff’s not that difficult to get. If you’re in the know? Think I’ve missed tonight’s delivery, but that’s not a problem?”

“Ah-ha!” Sherlock was so near now their knees were jammed together.

“Are you going on to Gem’s? Come and find me there. Here, punch my digits in.”

Sherlock obediently took the idiot’s number and gave his in return. Well, a number. Anderson’s actually. He made an excuse and left, trailing his fingers across the back of the idiot’s neck as he did so.

Thankfully the squabs and squawks of people petered out fairly early, and Sherlock saw the events man on the door leaving his post to help the caterers pack away. Rufus and Jamie had left. Sherlock hung around the corridor to waylay Allegra. She jumped.

“Oh, hi! Thought you’d gone! You seemed to be hitting it off with –”

“Yeah, no. I wanted to talk to you. Just thinking, a full day, then at least three late nights a week must leave you exhausted.”

He watched her pat at her hair, blush. Why did women do that? Think a comment about tiredness meant they looked haggard and ugly?

“I don’t usually stay for these events. No – it’s fine. I wanted to catch up with you and other people. Then when it got too shrill, I hid in my office and caught up with work. Lord. Was I that shrieky, at that age?”

“Not on your own. Only in your pack.”

“Oh. Thanks, I think. But don’t worry; if I’m not here, Rufus will be. If he’s not – and he often isn’t – his head waiter or that guy on the door are just as good and deputise. Everything will run smoothly.”

Damn. Other drop-off and pick-up venues then. He led Allegra through to the main room, and they saw off the last of the clean-up. “See?” she pointed out. “They have it down to a science. Oh. Who’s that man knocking at this time?”

It was Lestrade. Sherlock supressed a grin at how well he followed texted instructions – he’d turned up ASAP as well-dressed and non-threatening looking as requested. Because this would need another stage. There was nothing Sherlock could do now or could have done at the party to bring the case to a close.

“It’s a friend. I asked him to come. May I let him in?”

“Sherlock! Have I reached the stage I need blind dates setting up? You could have warned me: look!” She gestured at her work clothes and lack of makeup. “Not that I’m ungrateful for your choice, erm, effort, I mean.”

A nod from Sherlock had Lestrade showing his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. London Metropolitan Police.”

“Ms Allegra Chamberlyn-Wilkes.” Sherlock completed the introductions.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing like you’re imagining. Let’s go into the other gallery. Please.”

She allowed herself to be seated on a fold-out chair but turned down the wine Sherlock had hidden behind the column. “I can’t drink that hock. It’s just swill.” Sherlock missed a beat at this unexpected reminder of Seb.

“Just tell me! I promise not to faint. Or throw up.”

Sherlock signalled again, and Lestrade started the explanation. Allegra interrupted only once, asking, “Are you sure?” and Sherlock showed her the pictures he’d taken, showing two exchanges. She nodded, and her hand was steady as she handed the phone back. There was a silence when Lestrade finished. Allegra nodded again and stood. She reached out to straighten a frame, one of the very early works, hinting at the theme that was later to haunt the photographer, the loss of the traditional way of life in rural communities. Although Sherlock had been expecting it, he couldn’t avoid the slap she dealt him: she turned and struck too quickly.

“Did you do this for revenge? For what? I didn’t take him from you. As if I could. As if _anyone_ could. You drove him away yourself. You suffocated him. Strangled him. He couldn’t _breathe_ near you. There was no need…”

“Hey!” Lestrade grabbed her hand as she went for another blow. “That’s my consulting detective you’re walloping there.”

Allegra dropped her hand and stepped back. Tears sprang into her eyes as she looked from one man to the other. “God. That was so… _stupid_. And probably a crime? If you have to arrest me, that’s fine. I understand, and I did do it.”

“Arrest you? I was gonna correct your swing and say give him one from me. And all the lads down the station.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Sherlock a little sourly, rubbing his face.

“Wow. I do apologise, Sherlock, and Inspector Lestrade. That was pathetic of me.” She blinked back the tears, scowling. “This is going to sound stupid, but could I have a hug?” Her words were addressed to Lestrade.

“Of course. And a hanky.” He produced the huge, freshly laundered white handkerchief with initials stitched on Sherlock had also told him to bring. Allegra sniffed and even gave a hiccuppy snort as she dabbed her face and stepped in close for a tight squeeze. She patted Lestrade’s back to signal she wanted releasing.

“Good hug. Part of CID training? And for your information, I did think Jamie was acting very differently, but I attributed it to grief over his father’s death.”

“Your father died,” deduced Sherlock, raising his chin at the wedding ring on her necklace, “But you didn’t behave like that.”

“Well, no, but women are stronger, aren’t they.” She grinned and it wasn’t teary at all. “Remember that motivational poster I had? ‘A woman is like a teabag. You can only tell how strong she is when you put her in hot water.’ Well, that’s what it originally said. Before someone changed most of the nouns to the word ‘cliché.’”

“That…wasn’t me.”

“Sure?”

“Not…really.”

“Thought so. So, strength. What’s the next step? What do you need me to do?” She poured wine for the men.

“There’s no need to discuss that now. And we’ll make sure whatever happens, it’s not on your premises,” promised Lestrade, his eyes fixed on Allegra.

“No; if the gallery has to close as a consequence of my stupidity, so be it. Things flourish and then they wither. I understand that. It’s Nature. Biology. So. Our next move?”

“You’ve had a shock. There’s no need –”

“Maybe Allegra’s right. We should plan,” said Sherlock, just to see how loud Lestrade would ramp the ‘buzz off’ signals up to.

“Well, maybe Sherlock shouldn’t be involved. Conflict of interest, with you being a friend.” Lestrade got desperate quickly, Sherlock noticed. He waited until Lestrade was making ‘clear off’ gestures behind his back, and ‘I could be in here,’ Morse in his pleading blinks. Sherlock relented.

“Actually, Allegra, if you really want to help, you’ll be clearer-headed to help strategise when you’ve rested. I insist Lestrade sees you home.”

“Yes, no problem, Allegra,” agreed Lestrade.

“Please call me Alli. I hate my name. I hate the fact I’m called after a racehorse on which my father made a bundle the day he met my mother.”

“Alli, then. Greg. Me, I mean. And could be worse – at least it wasn’t Red Rum. Or Sea Biscuit.”

Sherlock left Lestrade to his heavy-handed flirting and caught a cab, thanking Seb again for the use of the magic code and thinking again he must remember to mention he’d given it to several members of his network, for use in emergencies. Presumably the bank needed a list of names to make their accounts at some point.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

And thinking what and how and when to tell Seb became the theme of the short journey. Sherlock let himself in as quietly as he could, and despite trying to think about other things as he pottered around, suddenly thought, _damn_. If this was having a conscience, or morals, or whatever, people could keep it or them. He gathered what he thought he’d need and walked slowly and heavily upstairs.

“Seb.” 

“Muurrr.”

“Sebastian.”

“Sleep. Don’tyousleep? Vampire?”

“I don’t want to have to talk to you.”

That seemed to do it, or at least Seb was intrigued enough to try and decode it, sitting up as he did so. His hair was madder than mad, but Sherlock didn’t smile as he approached, thinking to ask, “May I come in?” as he neared the bed. To which Seb didn’t bother replying, just stared at what he was carrying.

“You said you wanted to be told things.” Sherlock scowled. “Does that include not good things? And did you mean as soon as possible? Because if so, I brought you a drink.” 

Seb took the tumbler of amber liquid, sniffed it, and set it on his bedside table. “Is that my incredibly rare single-cast Ardbeg from the year I was born? I was saving that for a special occasion. Like my parents approving of me, or the birth of my son. Whichever comes first.”

“Oh.” Sherlock took it and swigged it down. “Nice.” He wiped a bit of sleep from Seb’s eye.

“Okay. What’s that.” Seb touched a hand to the bulge buttoned into Sherlock’s jacket and squirming.

“I brought you a cat too.”

“A _Persian_? You brought me a _Persian_ cat?”

“I don’t know. Did I?” Looking at the puffed-up white fur and the pissed-off, ran-into-a-brick-wall face as he handed the animal over, Sherlock thought he might have. “I found it in the garden.” He didn’t say which one. 

“You brought me a _Persian_ cat. It must be serious. Damn! I knew we should have put you on the Pill. Condoms are not reliable, and now you’re knocked up. I’m not blaming you, Sherlock. It was my sperm. I’ll do the right thing, of course.”

“Bell end.” 

“Should you be drinking? Sorry. Inappropriate humour. I’m more English than I realised. Go on?”

Sherlock found he couldn’t. Tried another tack. “Seb. Imagine you’re me.”

“Can do. Hang on.” Seb slid a pyjama top from under the other pillow, pulled it on and turned up the collar. He then scrunched handfuls of his hair into approximations of curls, pouted, and narrowed his eyes. “That do?” he asked through fish lips.

“Massive bell end. Just guess where I’ve been.” He leaned in close. Seb had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it as Sherlock kinked his neck against Seb’s nose for him to catch the lingering traces of a characteristic clean, flowery, not sickly-sweet scent. Sherlock placed a fingertip under the smudge of bronze lipstick near his jaw.

“Oh. Oh. You’ve…been with Allegra. Right.” Seb’s mouth twisted into a sort of flattened heart shape as he processed this. He grabbed up the glass and tried to lick the wet dregs from the bottom, then breathed in the whisky scent. He made a clutch for the cat, which rolled its eyes at him and settled in a furry hump halfway down the bed. It did allow him to touch its paw though. “Could you fetch Crocky down from the attic?” Seb asked in a small voice. “No; I’ll manage. Just tell me. All of it.”

So Sherlock did, ending with the fact Alli was safe with a trusted senior not too imbecilic and horrendous detective. 

“And you’re sure.” Seb said at the end. It wasn’t a question. Sherlock nodded. “ _Christ_ , Belle. Poor, poor Alli. It’s my fault. I should have checked that place out better. I should have kept an eye on things there. I did this to her.” His eyes slid from Sherlock, then he snatched his mobile from the table.

“When you think more, you’ll see it wasn’t you. What are you doing?” Sherlock was actually glad Seb hadn’t hit him too or stormed out to shoot Rufus, Jamie and most of the events agency employees. He’d hidden all the bullets just in case.

“Texting her. She switches her phone off at night, but she’ll get it first thing. Then when she gets it, I’ll call. Then we’ll sort this.” He finished and replaced his phone, then looked at his hands.

“Seb, it really isn’t your fault. And how will you explain you know about it? I didn’t mention us.”

That got Seb’s eyes on him. 

“What.”

“Us. You said ‘us.’”

“Did I? Don’t think I –”

“You did.” Seb’s eyes were gleaming a brighter blue. “We’re an us. You said it.”

“I don’t…” Sherlock was backing towards the door. “And I, I was thinking. I can move back now. I don’t need –”

“Stay.” Seb had flung back the covers and was out of bed. His boxers didn’t match the pyjama top. Were the trousers which matched the top still under the pillow, Sherlock wondered. Yes, almost certainly. What? Seb had a hand on his arm. “Don’t go. Please. Give us a chance.”

“ _Us._ ” That word again.

“I’m too old to try and woo you via dinners in quirky places, then silly, unusual dates, then a weekend away, then –”

“Roller skating?”

“Someone’s been digging.” Seb ran a hand through his hair. “But, yeah, skating, anytime. Absolutely. Ice too. Please stay at least for a bit longer. If you…can.”

“I could…stay until it’s over. Properly over. The case, I mean. It’s what brought me here.” Sherlock shrugged, then frowned at Seb’s huge grin.

“Mary Poppins stayed until the wind changed. You stay until the case is over. I see.”

Sherlock found a grin stealing over his face too. “Well, that’s that, then. I’ll have the housekeeper send the rest of my things on later. But for now, I’m too wired to sleep. I’m going to pace restlessly in the garden, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. Just go easy on the catnapping. I’m not keen on Siamese, FYI. Hey. Have you eaten? No? Well, those fish and chips won’t eat themselves, you know.” Seb stroked Sherlock’s face with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.

“Any mushy peas?”

“Mate! Of course. And a tub of curry sauce.”

“Good Lord. You are feeding me up.”

“I know the way to a man’s heart.” Seb yawned as he settled back in bed. “New clothes and blowjobs.”

“Still want that as the title of your autobiography?” asked Sherlock. He caught the pillow tossed at him.

“Sod off. Need my beauty sleep.”

Sherlock supposed he was glad Seb hadn’t thrown the cat. He petted the habitual black and white ones in the kitchen and thought about texting John. John always stayed up with him to work through breakthroughs in cases. And when it was over, the Chinese would stay open for them, or Angelo would nap as he waited for them to finish talking and laughing through the twists and turns and horrors of the evening or days. Would Seb do that? He’d got involved already, and would obviously be more so now it was impacting on his ex-wife. What had he meant by sorting things? Bringing her to live here, keeping her away from the gallery and the ring of people involved? _Chickfactor._

Sherlock pushed it from his mind as he went back to his research. Yes, the acid-alkali balance was as expected, depending on the reabsorption of the protein and… He found himself at the computer, summarising his research, his study into a proposal. One he e-mailed to the tutor who’d supervised his probationer research studentship and who had been disappointed but still got the powers-that-be to award Sherlock an MSc when he’d cut short his studies. In the e-mail he more or less begged the man to consider supervising him again, via distance if possible. There’d be no grants, no awards thrown at him this time around now he was no boy wonder, bringing prestige to the department. But that was okay. He didn’t need them. Mycroft would be only too pleased to fund his research. If Sherlock ever mentioned it. So it would need great care to keep it from him. He curled a lip in a sneer, remembering the fictional party for Mycroft he’d spent the evening arranging.

Party. As if. Maybe Seb could help think up…a better idea for Mycroft. What – all thoughts led to Seb? Seemed so, and Sherlock was getting randy. Huh. One thing John had never helped with, but he betted Seb would be only too pleased. He trotted upstairs to test his theory.


	21. Chapter Twenty-one

**Chapter Twenty-one**

“Seb.”

Seb pulled the pillow tighter over his head.

“Sebastian.” He poked him a little.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes! Do you know what bloody time it is? Ohhh.” Seb had whipped the pillow off and was staring at Sherlock, Sherlock who was standing naked and erect at the side of his bed. “It’s time you fucked me.”

Grinning a cracked smile, Sherlock slid under the duvet and on top of Seb, where he pinned Seb’s arms above his head and shoved his face into the crook of Seb’s neck, sniffing, then biting. Hard. He pressed his groin into Seb’s and enjoyed the taut rub of the cotton boxers against the root of his prick and the throb of his balls. Sherlock slid down under the duvet and bit a trail as he went, nipping Seb’s hip hard as he grabbed at the elastic waistband of the shorts to tug them free. He sniffed and licked at Seb’s stirring cock and his balls, trying to make new memories, or access old ones. 

The scent was the same, as was Seb’s squirm and squeal as Sherlock licked his tongue tip along the stretching join between head and shaft. Yes; still sensitive there. There was no precum to sip yet, but he bet the taste would be the same. He thrust his nose into Seb’s stomach, feeling the quiver and ripples. Only a bit heavier. More solid muscle. One more bite, this time to the ribs and he was back up. Needed air.

“What’s the rush?” asked Seb as Sherlock’s twist and shove had him on his side and Sherlock behind him, where he made Seb flinch by sticking his nose into Seb’s armpit. “Left the iron on? Slow down.”

“You’re the one who likes to take it slow,” replied Sherlock, stretching out long and promising behind Seb and inching up his left arm to position Seb’s head. Seb moved it free to look round.

“Not just me. Remember that Easter break? When E was popular again and I told you I’d hypnotised you?”

Initially frowning in memory, Sherlock stared into Seb’s eyes as light dawned. “And I believed it.” They’d been loved-up on MDMA, and Seb had spread Sherlock into a pentagram shape, where he’d remained for Seb to explore him. Thoroughly. It had seemed to take seconds and last hours. A day. Huh. “I remember.”

He pushed Seb’s head back down slightly to bite his neck again. Same place, recolouring the red mark. Seb let him, even pushed back against him. Sherlock slipped his hand down to Seb’s prick. “Don’t come until I say. It’s me now.”

“I’ll try,” promised Seb, thrusting, then inching away as Sherlock’s grip shifted to clamp around Seb’s balls, near the top. “Whatever you want.”

Sherlock had to break off to rummage around for condoms and lube. Damn. He should have had that ready. Still, didn’t take long. He ran an experimental finger up the crack of Seb’s arsecheeks and around his hole, stopping when Seb was easily breached. “Not eight years for you,” he murmured into Seb’s ear, his left hand tilting it via the grip it had on Seb’s hair.

“A month. Six weeks?” Seb tried.

“Who.”

“You don’t know her. It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock paused, really paused, halted in his actions and loosened his clench on Seb’s hair. He changed the grip on Seb’s balls to long, sweet caresses of his prick, pressing his front hard against Seb’s back as he started to laugh. It didn’t matter. The past – any of it. He was here and Seb was here and they were here, here and now. That was it. He curled around Seb so he could reach his face properly. “I’m better than her.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

“I don’t need a strap-on, for one thing.”

“God, there’s a scary thought.”

“Oh, _The Boy With The Arab Strap_!” they both said together and had to pause to laugh.

So Sherlock kissed him, awkward though the curve was for him, and the twist for Seb, just initiated a light, dry, exploratory touch of the lips which became a deep and smooth press, a tasting, a relearning, a reordering, a reawareness of his place, almost draped across Seb. It was less than expert and like and unlike and better than the first time, and they stopped for breath, then started a new, different one, harder, fiercer, teeth biting at bottom lips, tongues stroking and stabbing.

“Whatever you want,” repeated Seb a little brokenly as they parted. He dipped his head to wipe the saliva from his mouth away on his shoulder. 

“I know,” said Sherlock, dragging his body across Seb’s to reassume his position behind him. He applied more lube and suddenly thrust between Seb’s legs, shoving one up higher to make a perfect space. “Still like intercrural?” He stroked deep, knocking on Seb’s swollen balls as he pushed in.

“What? I never did.”

“Bugger.” Sherlock stopped. “That wasn’t – Bugger. Sorry.”

He tried to make up for his faux pas, using Seb’s position to both their advantages by rubbing insistently with two fingers on Seb’s exposed arsehole, then shoving them inside, long and firm, before pulling out to thrust his prick inside, slow and sure. Seb groaned, more so as Sherlock resumed his tight hold on Seb’s balls and repeated that Seb wasn’t to come yet. Sherlock pushed deep, deep inside, slamming home, wanting to press against the nub of gland if he could, wanted to provoke a reaction, leave his mark. He grabbed Seb’s face for more hard, wet kisses and when he pulled away a little to study Seb’s blood-bruised, teeth-bitten bottom lip, he saw Seb staring deep into his eyes. 

Somehow the tenor of the kiss changed again, sweeter, slower, sliding, stroking, before Sherlock rearranged himself over Seb, half pressing Seb under him and sticking with the sweat because the heat and constriction was suddenly overpowering and he had to pump and thrust hard, still allowing Seb no friction, denying him his climax. He curled his fingers into the tight grip of Seb’s on the sheet as he gave a final hard plunge and low moan and came, spilling heavy and thick and staying deep after to minimise his pushes.

But he had to pull out eventually, once his breathing levelled, even if Seb seemed to be holding him, trapping him. He got rid of the condom and wrapped himself around Seb from behind, linking his hands around Seb’s waist at the indent before he realised he was cuddling Seb, hugging him. He felt Seb’s still-erect cock bumping their joined hands. Sherlock breathed in deep, trying to measure any changes in their scents now, trying to catalogue… He rebit the throbbing mark on Seb’s neck, but not as hard as he once would have.

Seb shivered. Shook, even. “Stop,” he whispered. 

“Why should I?”

“Because I haven’t come yet, unlike some people.”

Sherlock rested his chin on Seb’s shoulder in mock contrition, but spoilt it by pressing down, for the joy of making Seb writhe. 

“You can blow me in the shower to show you’re sorry,” Seb decided.

“Oh. Still into that? You know I hate the taste of latex.”

“Mate! I’ve got flavoured ones.”

“You’re joking. I hope.”

“Not. Banana.”

“I still don’t like them.” Sherlock gave a final squeeze and slipped free, to lie on his back.

“You don’t need one. I’m clean.” Seb got up.

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen the test results. _Newpassword999_? Really.” He felt rather than saw Seb’s gaze on him before he turned to meet his eyes. “I’m clean too. If you’re interested.”

“So bloody come on then! Celebration time.”

“Go and start the shower. I like it hot.” He waited for Seb’s impatient shout before sauntering in to join him in the huge glass shower cabinet, where he was wallowing in the various ceiling and wall jets, still so hugely, extravagantly hard Sherlock could do nothing but drop to his knees in front of him.

“Sybarite,” he mouthed upwards, collecting a mouthful of water he let dribble from his lips, Seb groaned and leant down to balance on him. Sherlock pushed him and walked over on his knees until Seb was supported by a glass wall. It had been ages since he’d done this, and he’d only ever liked doing it for Seb, not – Seb’s cock was longer and thicker than his own, he judged. He traced a finger along the  
dark vein pulsing along the underside, and thought the cock grew a little more as it juddered. He glanced up at Seb, Seb with water-flattened hair and water-spiked eyelashes who was still watching him. God, the need in his dark blue eyes. But there was also…was that _compassion_?

“I’m doing this,” Sherlock said, firmly and clearly above the tropical rain of the water, the weight of expectation.

“Take it slowly. You don’t have to suck hard, or…” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a firm grip on the base of Seb’s cock before bringing his mouth to the glistening head. Now there was precum, glistening pearl, so different from the clear water beating on them. Sherlock lapped up the drops, using the flat, then the tip of his tongue to give Seb a debauched visual. Damn, the slightly scented water – a menthol product in the shower heads? – clouded his olfactory sense; he couldn’t properly assess any changes to Seb’s taste. Next time.

Now was time for a leisurely swirling of his tongue in soft circles as he took more and more of the weight and solidity into his mouth, then flicked his tongue along the thinned join of flesh between cockhead and body in a move that had Seb nearly to his knees. He worked lower, enjoying the fill of his mouth until Seb’s cock hit the back of his throat. He halted and breathed slow and hard through his nose. Damn. Too much too soon.

“Belle. Work the head. I love that.” One of Seb’s hands squeezed his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up to a crooked, strained grin. “Love your tongue and lips on me. You know I do. God. I’m almost there.”

Sherlock teased the tip, then sucked on the head, returning to his earlier act of licking his tongue around it. Seb’s balls were full when he cupped them, and Seb was thrusting and groaning, and one of the groans was Sherlock’s name. Sherlock sucked harder and felt Seb’s balls draw up. He felt Seb attempt to pull away, but he didn’t let him, instead giving a minute shake of his head as he wrapped his tongue around Seb’s slit, and massaged his balls. He wanted it all. For him. 

“Sherlock!”

Seb’s cock swelled into one big, hard pulse as he jetted into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock swallowed, pleased he wasn’t gagging or flinching. He wanted everything Seb could give him, every warm, slightly thick-sweet drop. Seb moaned and sagged against the glass wall holding him up. When Sherlock looked up, Seb’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his throat working in tight breaths and his muscular chest heaving, trying to take in deeper ones. He looked utterly wrecked, and it was beyond glorious. 

Sherlock gently tugged him down to the shower floor with him, rinsing his mouth out with water before kissing Seb. Achingly slow, shy, sweet presses until he could slide his tongue in and taste and sip, kissing Seb back to awareness.

“I don’t do drugs anymore. I told you that, and it’s true,” he whispered. 

A dazed Seb nodded. “Will you…always tell me the truth?”

“If you want. If I can. I was heartbroken when you left. Absolutely destroyed. I didn’t care about anything after. No” – Seb had clutched him hard – “I’m not blaming you for my behaviour. I just wanted to tell you how I felt.”

“Thanks?” Seb breathed, right in his ear. “And you have no idea how much it hurts, still, knowing I hurt you.” He folded one of Sherlock’s hands over his heart, holding it close.

“It’s okay. I mean, I think it’s okay now.” Sherlock tilted his face into the spray so all moisture, all droplets running down it would be that. He looked at Seb, and they remained there for a while, just sitting, occasionally kissing, or just leaning back against the glass, heads together, letting the water cleanse them.


	22. Chapter Twenty-two

**Chapter Twenty-two**

“I have to go to the office,” Seb announced as they were getting dressed.

“On a Sunday?” Sherlock eyed him. He wouldn’t have expected Seb to be the one freaking out about things.

“Oh, yeah. Silly of me. It’s a reflex. A coping thing. A metaphor.” Seb put down the starched shirt and reached for a softer polo one. 

“A coping metaphor. Also known as a hiding place.” Sherlock helped himself to a similar shirt, frowned, and grabbed a proper shirt. Better. 

“Thought you might need time alone, to... Ohhh.” 

Sherlock had dissuaded him from that line of thinking by backing him against the stupid highboy, groping his arse and shoving his tongue down his throat. He recalled Seb’s very occasional fits of conscience, or scruples, or whatever people called them, and knew how to manage them, get his focus back where it should be. He fixed him with a sharp glare after. Even sharper when he realised the new shirt he was buttoning fitted him perfectly, but wasn’t actually his. Well, it was now…

He couldn’t believe Seb made him eat the warmed-up fish and chips for breakfast. 

“Mate. What would nanny say about waste?” asked Seb, dipping a chip in the plastic tub of green mush.

“I imagine – although I can’t be sure as I never actually had one, just a big brother about whom the less said the better – she’d say more about eating microwaved fast food for breakfast?”

Seb snatched at his phone as it beeped. “Alli’s got my message. I need to talk to her. I don’t want her in that place with those people hanging around her.”

“Redeploy a bodyguard,” suggested Sherlock. “Then you can show me the pics of the hunks available. I bet a lot of them are in your wank bank, aren’t they.”

“You absolute…ly know me too well.” Seb flicked a chip at him, and a cat sprang up on the table and caught it in midair. 

“Just ask the one who’s on duty now. Seb, really, you didn’t think I’d believe you give them weekends off. Shouldn’t truth swing both ways?”

“Nah, that’s me, Belle. Dual capacity, and all that.” He grinned at Sherlock’s sniggers. “I’m calling her.”

Out of curiosity Sherlock called Lestrade on his home phone as Seb talked, and heard its ring tone in the background of Seb’s phone. Well, at least they’d know where to send the guard. If Alli allowed it. Oh, she did.

“Which officer will be doing that?” Sherlock asked, listening to Lestrade’s plan for an undercover agent to pose as a friend of Alli’s family and thus be taken on as a favour for work experience as her PA. “Oh, acceptable I suppose. I think her intern’s in on it, don’t you? I bet that’s how Rufus operates. Probably recommends stooges for these positions or ensures their paths cross, and keeps a lock on things that way.” 

“So, _Sebby_ ,” Sherlock began, when Seb had disconnected after being told Alli didn’t need to see him, thanks.

“ _Sebby?_ ”

“That’s what Alli calls you, isn’t it? She did yesterday.”

“Of course not. If she did, it was to wind you up, you div.”

Bugger. It was too. “Well, if we have her blessing…”

“Oh, she didn’t need it spelling out. She never did. Not before, during or after the marriage.” 

“Oh.” 

“She’s all right, you know, Belle. She’s not anyone’s enemy.”

“I know.” Sherlock gave Seb’s hand a squeeze as he stood. “Come on. I want to see your gallery of dishy, muscled bodyguards. If you can, send Frik to watch Alli. He’ll blend in, fade into the background even, and he’s bloody ruthless.”

“What every woman dreams of in a guy,” sighed Seb, getting his phone out again. “If only he mowed the lawn. What are you looking at?” he asked a few minutes later, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock had the events planners’ Web site up, plus a society photographer’s picture library. “Good Lord. I was at that bash,” he commented, watching the slideshow of events for the previous month. “There I am, look. Wow. How did I ever think I could pull off a salmon-pink shirt at my age?”

“How about focussing here? I’m figuring out which other small, tame venues like the gallery this idiot uses as meeting points. If I locate the next planned delivery, Lestrade can stake it out all nice and legal, bust it open, and end this crap.”

He opened up the site of a leading photographic press agency and picture library as well. 

“The gallery’s not listed on the planners’ site as one of their venues,” Seb pointed out. 

“No, it isn’t. Too small. So we need to find which other similar venues they hold these evening drink-and-drop meets at. They’ll be small, in the borough, very visible – where’s your stack of gossip magazines when we need them?” He snatched up the pages he’d just printed, left the PC, and whirled around, looking for his phone. Seb took his place.

Sherlock had pickpocketed Rufus’s phone for a few minutes, enough to note the last numbers he’d called and his appointments for the week. Now he cross-referenced that with small niche places in Kensington and Chelsea and even Westminster. He was just starting on Hammersmith and Fulham when Seb exclaimed out loud.

“What?” Sherlock leapt for the PC.

“Oh, just checking my e-mail, and I clicked on this link from Mo-Mo. You remember him? Anyway, just doing the quiz...”

“I thought you were helping!”

“I’m not your lackey, but look, I am a good boyfriend.”

“So I see.” Sherlock looked at the score and pointed to the lower scored items. “So will you start complimenting me and asking about my day?”

“You do look lovely in that shirt, it’s true. And how’s the sleuthing going?”

“Let’s see.” Sherlock reached over Seb’s shoulder and tapped a few keys, putting in search terms. “He uses initials only in his planner, but these initials, from next Tuesday… Wonder if they correspond to a venue meeting the requirements we’ve mapped out…”

“The Royal Pharmacy Society café and gardens in Knightsbridge! SW7!” read Seb. “The cheeky bitch. Does he think that’s irony or something? We have to stop him for that, if nothing else, Belle.”

“I think it’s the Met’s job now. It has to be watertight. And that’s a good place for a trap – the organisation is above board, run by a hospital trust, not a private owner.” Sherlock was texting Lestrade as he spoke. He glanced up and beyond, into the kitchen. “Is Murphy allowed to eat off the table like that?”

“I’ve given up. You’re a bad influence,” Seb replied, clearing the remains away. “Our children will obviously just run wild like savages.” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to do or say in the pause that followed. Settled for pretending it hadn’t happened. Yes, English coping. Always best. But that said, he was glad when Seb took a call on his mobile, even if he was braying and hawhawing into it. 

“Think so. Let me check.” He covered the phone. “Sunday bachelor brunch. Sit outdoors in a courtyard with a heater under the table if it’s cold and eye up other posh totty bachelors, bachelorettes and divorcees. Yes/no?”

“You’re having lunch with me. People to meet.” Sherlock didn’t know what he was going to say until it came out, but Seb needed to see how he lived. And he needed to see Seb see it. It was Sunday. Payday for the network.

“Yeah, no can do? Have a bloody for me,” Seb replied and soon ended the call. “Will this do?” He indicated his outfit. 

“Depends.” Sherlock grinned. “Are we fencing or real tennis-ing? Which of us is going to clean the other’s clock? Wipe the floor with the other?”

“That’s fightin’ talk.” Seb grabbed a deck of cards from the kitchen drawer. “First Jack out wins?”

“Goddarn knave.” Sherlock lost. He recalled he usually did, to Seb.

“And we’re back in the Royal borough,” he commented half an hour later. “I don’t know why we don’t just move here, we’re here all the time. Fitting, for real tennis, I suppose.” Still, Seb looked okay in white shorts, he thought. Seb tried to teach him via watching from the gallery, and Sherlock tried not to curl his lip at the archaic names employed in the sport. He realised Seb must have bribed people to give up their slot – unless he routinely booked a Sunday time for himself.

“Poop,” called Seb as they started.

“Give me a bloody chance. I might be good,” called back Sherlock from the other end of the ridiculously long court. 

“It’s the style of the service. I told you!” cried Seb. Sherlock rolled his eyes. A few boomerangs and laying chases later, he decided they were definitely fencing next time. Or even roller skating. This was squash for sadists, he thought. Who spoke French. Medieval French. 

“Good workout, seeing as I was knackered before I started,” Seb commented. “Do you want to get your people to come to lunch here? The salad’s okay.” Sherlock hid a grin, thinking of his ‘people’ turning up there.

“No. We have a bit of a walk to link up with various…people,” was his warning to Seb before they set off on a route march around the city. Sherlock stopped at several cashpoints and Seb helped him put notes in plain envelopes, commenting, “You’d tell me if you were being blackmailed, wouldn’t you.”

As well as payday, the weekend was a good time to get a roundup of the week’s news from his network, his eyes and ears all over the city. To take its pulse. Feel its temperature. “You’re quiet,” Sherlock remarked as they left another knot of rough sleepers and he’d talked to their leader.

“I thought all this was all in the Inner East and South, not the centre,” Seb replied, looking around as they pressed on towards Victoria. 

“More there, yes. But the Inner West has its share. More cash to be made here,” Sherlock replied. “And these are moved on more. So they get around more and quicker.”

“I know every borough has its less-than-des-res area. Deprived, I suppose is the word.” Seb paused and watched as Sherlock greeted a girl and her group behind Victoria Station.

“Julie, Sebastian. Lee, Stu.” Sherlock wondered if Seb had ever shaken hands with the, literally, unwashed before. He gave the group a speaking look. They now knew, as did all the others they’d met, that Seb was to be looked out for. So they weren’t professionally trained bodyguards, but people now knew that if anything likely to affect this man was on the horizon, Sherlock was to be told. “Come on. I’ve had lunch catered.”

Seb seemed perfectly okay with eating takeout baguettes while sitting on the stone bench surrounding the huge plane tree outside Westminster cathedral. He looked around the piazza, now empty of office workers from Victoria and sparsely populated with tourists.

“Off the beaten track, I suppose,” he commented, then frowned. “Oh Lord. Stu, that’s my Christmas cashmere you’re wearing, isn’t it. Aunt Debs and Uncle Clive always get me something in an awful, virulent shade of green. I can’t think where they find that shade. They must have to look really really hard.”

“Don’t they like you?” asked Lee.

“No, they never have. They didn’t approve of my mother, so…I’m doomed to pea and olive green for eternity. Cheers, Stu.” He saluted him with a can of Red Stripe. “I am sorry.”


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

**Chapter Twenty-three**

“Hold on a sec.” It was later, and Seb had been slowing down for a few minutes, his conversation decelerating. Sherlock waited while Seb vanished into a newsagent’s to reappear with two cans of energy drink. He offered one to Sherlock who shook his head. Seb opened both and sipped from them alternately.

“Want some Pro-Plus with that?” queried Sherlock.

“Mate, you’ve got to admit that’s been a fair bit of walking. I suppose that’s why your legs and glutes are so yummy. Is there an insane amount of running too?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m a bit below par. I’m just starting to feel the effects of…you. You really gave it fearful. I haven’t taken it up the arse in a while.”

“Six weeks. You said. You should get out more.” Sherlock smirked and assessed where they were. “Talking of, do you want to come back to mine?” He almost stumbled as he walked. Once again, he hadn’t known what he was going to say until it emerged, fully formed. It was a thing Seb did to him. Had always done, right from the first, when Sherlock had entered his room without meaning to, without knowing he was going to. Strange. “Meet my not-housekeeper, my landlady?” Maybe he thought this would demur Seb.

“A lady of a…certain age, could one say?”

“More than certain.”

“Hang on…” Seb had his phone out, was tapping away. “Sure. Just a quick stop first…”

A slight detour to Marylebone Station, it turned out, and Sherlock waiting for Seb to emerge from Marks and Spencer’s. With a bunch of flowers and a gift bag. Chocolates, he guessed, from the dull rattle-thud audible from the bag as it bashed into Seb’s knee before he adjusted his gait to accommodate it.

“There’d better not be any more pants and socks for me in there,” he warned. “And you are not to buy me shirts. I’m not…Patrick, or whatever his name was.”

“I had to get you a few shirts. That or a catcher’s mitt. Yours are so tight, the buttons look ready to ping off, and I don’t want the cats choking on them.” Seb was unrepentant. “They strain, mate. But I wish I’d had more time to prepare for this. I’m great with parents and grans. Usually.”

“She’s not… Oh. Well.” Perhaps she was. Sherlock let Seb in and indicated he should walk down the corridor. Before he’d had chance to knock on 221 the door opened, with a, “Sherlock! I know your slam! Oh…”

“Mrs Hudson, this is Sebastian Wilkes.”

“A friend,” finished Seb, smiling as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How do you do.”

“Oh, goodness, what lovely flowers!” Mrs H was fluttering, knowing the drill.

“They should be; they’re for you! Sherlock would skin me alive if they weren’t not good enough for such a lovely lady.” Seb presented them with a flourish, rode out the twitters, and moved in for a hug. Sherlock got his usual hug and back slap.

“Come in, come in! I’ll put the kettle on. Oh, I wish you’d said you were coming, Sherlock! I’ve just a cake from yesterday. No, the day before.”

“Allow me.” Seb presented the gift bag. 

“Oh, the luxury selection! Icing and everything!”

(Biscuits, not chocolates. Of course. There’s always something.)

“Oh, what a treat. You shouldn’t have!”

“They’re from both of us. And the bag’s nice, isn’t it.”

A certain age meant that after which people paid attention to the bag things came in. Sherlock filed Mrs H’s reaction away. Was this as embarrassing as taking people to meet one’s parents? At least Mrs H had no snaps of him standing identically dressed bar the huge scowl and messy curls next to his brother. She did, however, have shots of him appallingly dressed and scowling in the Florida sun. And Seb – interestingly – carried in his wallet the famous pics of Sherlock before and – 

“Sherlock! What happened?” Mrs H actually had her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick.

“Nothing. I got tired of being told to tie my hair back for lab work.”

“So he took the scissors, then the razor to it.”

“Just the fringe. And the bits round my ears.”

“And the back.”

“Well.” It seemed as if Mrs H would keep her luxury biscuits down. “At least it grew back. Are you married, Sebastian?”

And he’d thought Seb the conversational quick-change champion. He prowled around as Mrs H oohed and ahhed over Seb’s marriage and divorce and staying friends, and yes, it was good there were no children involved and did Mrs Hudson have children? Sherlock tuned out then, didn’t look at the photos, and instead caught up a little with Lestrade’s plans – guessing the details as Lestrade, that morbidly slow texter, only sent the outline.

“Seb’s coming for a look upstairs,” he announced, staring raised-eyebrowed at Seb and Mrs Hudson exchanging phone numbers. 

“Mrs Hudson’s going to meet my aunt from the States and take her to tea, show her the sights,” Seb explained.

“Can’t your mother do that?”

“They don’t speak. Haven’t for years. Stupid falling out.”

“Sisters are like that,” agreed Mrs Hudson. “Vindictive!” Then without missing a beat, “So John’s staying in Scotland? And you’re looking –”

“No, I mean… I don’t know. He’ll be back. But Seb’s not –” Sherlock actually looked at Seb for help.

“Sherlock’s staying with me for a while. Then we’ll see, Mrs Hudson.”

“Well, there’s always changes, aren’t there. Even at my time of life.”

And on a tide of Seb’s gallantry about her not looking her age they swept out, Sherlock running ahead up the stairs. Seb followed more slowly, tapping his knuckles against the wall and banister. He stood at the threshold and stared, sweeping his gaze around the admittedly less-than-tidy living room.

'“ _The State I Am In_ ,”' murmured Sherlock.

“I was going with ' _I Fought In A War_ ,”' replied Seb. His glance landed on the skull. “He’s here! You’ve still got him!” 

One souvenir not banished to the cache of shame. “After all you went through, wooing me into sleeping with you? Of course! Look, I’m going to grab some more clothes.”

“Nothing with your nametag still in, please. I’m not that old I get off on cradle-snatching scenarios.” Seb was looking through the CDs.

“Most of those aren’t mine,” Sherlock called. 

“I can tell.”

Sherlock rolled a few sheets of music into the small case and pushed in a few reference books he missed having. He stuffed a change of clothes into the spaces. “Come in, then. I know you want to see my bedroom.” 

Seb hovered in the doorway, and Sherlock saw the room through his eyes. Teenager’s room? Student’s? Not really an adult’s. Fossilised. Identity crisis. Whatever. “I’ve been meaning to…burn everything,” he muttered. 

“Well. Mind if I snatch these CDs from the flames? Mine wore out.” Seb held them out. Belle and Sebastian, of course. Sherlock didn’t think anything else would have made him laugh at that moment. “Mind if we get a cab home?” Seb continued. “Got this thing…”

“Does the magic code work on Sundays?” Sherlock wondered. It did. And in the cab, he discovered the skull had come with them. One day he’d get the real story of it from Seb. He thought his original story of a raid on the crypt beneath St Edmund’s Hall was perhaps the truth. But then again, you never knew with Seb.

“I notice you don’t carry photos of you with a similar haircut in sympathy with mine,” Sherlock pointed out. Seb had looked ridiculous for weeks.

“Of course not. More pics I had to track down and destroy. But I picked up your dubbin from the shelf.” Seb produced the small pot. “I thought you might need it, to play. You haven’t been playing? Would you? I’d love to hear you.”

“When?”

“Later?”

“I might. What…are you doing?” Seb was taking dishes out of the Aga. “You must be starving. What are those?”

“A vegetarian spaghetti bake and a lasagne. And garlic bread. And this empty bowl’s going to be a humungous salad.”

“How do you know which is which?” The rectangles looked the same.

“The earthernware.”

“Huh?”

“The cookware. The dishes. Colour coded.”

Sherlock looked at the preparations for another minute, narrow-eyed. “Kitchen sups? You’re doing kitchen sups?”

“Umm. Neighbourhood Association committee thing.” Seb didn’t look up from chopping and didn’t answer the wheezed question about crypto fascists Sherlock managed between guffaws. 

“Oh God. Well, it’s not as if you’re chairman or anything…Oh my God!” And Sherlock didn’t stop laughing, right through an exasperated Seb telling him for his cheek he had to wrangle the salad and be sommelier whilst Seb shaved, and then doorman. Being barman was easy; Sherlock just splashed a lot of gin and a dash of tonic into a row of tumblers he set out on the draining board – well, how was he supposed to know where the corkscrew was? He threw rough wedges of lemon in one by one, ignoring Seb’s confused mutterings about having thought he had more glasses than that. And champagne.

The latter task consisted of him lounging in the open front door to let in people called things like Kara and Giles – he stopped listening after that – and throwing their coats over the banister before pointing the guests downstairs. _Don’t go through people’s coat pockets, please, Belle. SW_ came as the first guest arrived and with a wordless _grrr_ of irritation Sherlock flung himself downstairs to join the party after they’d all turned up. He had to arrange the mise-en-scène, well, the surreptitious placing in the kitchen of as many photos of himself and Seb as he could find for people to see as they circulated, choked on the strong drinks, and drew conclusions about the pair of them.

Oh, and as self-appointed in charge of music, he put on one of the CDs Seb had taken, grinning as Seb tried to choke back a laugh at the song whose lyrics they used to recite call-and-response style.

‘“I’d rather be fat than be confused,”’ Sherlock half sang along, leaning against Seb. 

‘“…a family like the mafia…”’ Seb was trying to remember the lyrics.

‘“If my family tree goes back to the Romans…”’

‘“Then I will change my name to Jones…”’

That was about when they both started laughing and Seb’s fellow committee members applauding.

“Oh, mate. Can you play that on the violin?” Seb wondered.


	24. Chapter Twenty-four

**Chapter Twenty-four**

“So, any questions?” It was much later, all the gin had gone, plates had been shoved aside, and Seb had just finished explaining something again about residents’ parking procedures over the inebriated buzz. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“Yes. Why don’t you like Siamese cats?”

“Erm, well, I suppose if I had to answer that question…”

“You do.”

“I’d have to say it’s probably because their eyes look like yours, kept reminding me of you when I missed you so much. Same slant, same narrow-eyed glare?” Seb shrugged and into the cushioning silence made the ‘this is hell on wheels – a tenner if you get me out of it’ gesture down to Sherlock at the other end of the long table.

“Hmm,” replied Sherlock, satisfied.

“Cat hater?” enquired the oldest gent present, in a wavering tone.

“God, no. I love ’em. Wait. That sounded…”

“Oh, you have a Persian! You wife’s cat, and… Oh. I’m sorry for your loss. I hope the cat is a comfort,” Sherlock said to the man. The silence thickened, until –

“Fuck, Sherlock _Holmes_!” It was Kara or Mara, and she’d been in the pub that night. The girl Seb had – “Giles, the detective! The one who advises that gorgeous Met inspector. You know, we go mad for him on the news. Oh, no. That was a conversation I had with Suze.”

“Yes! The case of the serial suicides, you remember!” Must be Suze. “He solved it! _You_ solved it, I mean.”

“Indeed I did. Tricky one, that. I had to play the victim, let the murderer abduct and try to kill me.” The buzzed background buzz amplified to a roar as the crowd’s eager questions elicited the details, to exclamations and applause.

“And are you here because of a case? _Here?_ Is it the paintings that were found in the pub? It is, isn’t it!” No idea of that bloke’s name.

“Was that you? Is it a forgery ring?” Or that woman’s or what ‘a forgery ring’ was.

“Is _Sebastian_ involved?” The Persian owner. “He _does_ have a lot of paintings.” A philistine Persian owner.

“Oh, is he your new assistant, your blogger, as well as your boyfriend?” Giles.

“So, the motion’s carried?” Seb held up the proposal but despite shouting, couldn’t be heard over the hubbub. Sherlock’s smooth, deep, “I’d _love_ to be interviewed for the Association’s newsletter,” could, though. Seb screwed his page into a ball and threw it onto the floor. It was pounced on and kicked around by a black-and-white cat. Murphy.

“Isn’t that my cat? Is this where he gets to?” A male voice.

“ _Our_ cat. And I’m surprised you recognise him. You don’t pay any more attention to him than you do to me. You wouldn’t notice if either of us weren’t there!” Sherlock rather fancied the bitter woman’s name was Liza. He didn’t know why that name had registered. He glanced over. Seb had his head in his hands, his elbows on the table. _What?_ Sherlock mouthed, wondering whether now was a good time to ask the group back over for his probable going-away party in two days. In a flurry of invites and congratulations to the two of them, the evening broke up soon after.

Seb came back after showing the guests out, and Sherlock stood.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not turning round, shoving the dirty dishes into a pile as a sign of contrition. They weren’t kids anymore. That maybe had been –

“Hey.” A warm hand slid into his back pocket, and Seb’s arm turned him round for a hug, rubbing their foreheads together. “Best Association Committee meeting ever. They want the next one in the pub, with cocktails. Oh yes. Happy little sloshed group lurching home. I always knew these bashes would lead to spouse swapping sooner or later.”

“Oh.” Finding he didn’t like the sound of that, or the thought of Seb with Lara, or whatever she’d been called, Sherlock turned back to the table and pushed again at the pile of dishes. “I’ll…”

“Not me. I wouldn’t swap you, you nutter.” Seb twirled him back for a tighter hug, nuzzling into his neck. “I’m not into game playing, messing around. Not now. Not any more. Not with you. Don’t you know that yet?”

“I…suppose.” Sherlock pulled free and searched Seb’s face. “So, good evening, really?”

“Umm. Our guests adored the cut-up marshmallows in the salad.”

“I found them in the larder! I thought American salads had them in. Oh. Were they your munchies mallows?”

“Which you harshed, dude. My munchies stash is sacrosanct. Verboten. You know, I never wanted to be chair. Or member, even. I wanted to be –”

“A slutty lumberjack. I suppose you inherited the Committee. Weight of tradition, and all that.” The CD had circled back round again: ‘“If my family tree goes back to Napoleon…”’

‘“Then I will change my name to Smith.”’

“Except it’s not really possible, is it? The great escape?”

“Only under certain special circumstances.” Seb pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips, squeezing his arse through both back pockets at the same time. “Your arse just seems to press itself into my hands. I’m surprised it’s not perma-black and blue. Actually, if you could scrape, stack and store…” Sherlock had no idea what that meant, but presumed it had something to do with the dirty crockery. “Because I have to catch up with the markets, and before that I’d like some time with my one-eyed leisure instrument.”

Sherlock took a step back. 

“The one which transports me to the heights,” Seb finished. “Yeah, my telescope, Sherlock? In the garden? To see the constellation of –”

“ _Astrology?_ ”

“Astronomy! What did you think the instrument was for?”

“Spying on cats,” Sherlock muttered.

“Mate, you knew I was a stargazer. I used to show you all about the solar system! Up on the roof!”

“Oh. I must have del – forgotten it. Will you tell me again, one of these days?”

“Hmm. Dunno. Now, if you’ll excuse me” – Seb poured them both a balloon of brandy – “I’m retiring to my leisure pursuit in the time-honoured manner of an English gentleman of fiction.” He stopped and took up a wooden box from the windowsill. His blunt box, Sherlock remembered and raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Okay, in the manner of a stereotypical English gent and equally stereotypical American college student.” Carrying the glass on top of the box like a tray, Seb left.

Said it all really, Sherlock thought, as did the, “Uranus sure looks mighty fine tonight,” comment which floated back into the kitchen. Sherlock moved the heap of dirty crockery from the table to the sink. There was probably a dish washing appliance somewhere. How was he supposed to know how things were conveyed to it. His fingers closed around the small round box in his pocket. Oh. 

“Would you…like to hear me play something?” He didn’t look up as he spoke from the doorway. “I’ll stay here.” He wouldn’t crowd. Wouldn’t… _suffocate_.

“That would be kind.” 

Both bits, he means, thought Sherlock, fetching his violin. He played a few pieces Seb had liked, mostly things used as the theme tunes to TV shows, or used in films, but he managed to slip in some Vaughan Williams. He ended on Chopin, and was startled at the applause coming from the neighbouring garden.

“Duet, next time. That’ll slay them,” commented Seb. 

Sherlock decided to go to bed – he hadn’t the previous night, he recalled. Age was a bugger. He used to be able to do two nights up, one down, when he was younger. And by bed, he meant Sebastian’s, the bedside table of which now housed photos of them. It seemed logical. Natural. As was the dip and weight, later, on the bed: Seb, prior to getting in.

“Ohhh. _Dirty Dream Number Two_ ,” sighed Sherlock, waking up. 

“Always so considerate, realising I might not feel good about corridor creeping in my own home,” replied Seb.

“Although there is that thrill of the illicit.”

“Yes; maybe I fancied an away fixture.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Still, a change of scene’s always good, isn’t it. May I?” At Sherlock’s nod Seb slid in, immediately leaning over for short kisses. Very Seb; anise toothpaste and the lime tang of what he called skin food, and his cologne. Sherlock grinned.

“It’s not supposed to be funny. It’s meant to be sexy, me wearing nothing but the remnants of my aftershave.” Seb pulled away a little, tried a pout.

“Come back here this instant, Sebastian Wilkes. I suppose you want to screw me. You’re so highly sexed. I don’t even know.”

“I’m easy.” Seb shrugged.

“I just said that. I also said come here.”

In an instant Seb was on top of him, his hands in Sherlock’s hair, kissing him. “Hmm. First it was me, then you. Means it’s me?”

“You're very linear, for a Maths grad,” tutted Sherlock. “Introduce a random factor. A variant.”

“Why do we go through this? You know you like to bottom. You’re a natural.”

“No; you just like my natural bottom.”

“Right. Toss you for it? Pun very much intended.” Seb shot off, to return seconds later with a coin taken from the silver half-moon dish on his highboy. “Head or tail?”

Rolling his eyes at the second awful pun, Sherlock breathed, “Head,” but wasn’t too surprised when Seb slammed the coin down on his wrist and replied, “I’ve got tail.”

“You’ve also got a massive bulge bracket that I’d say needs massaging.” Sherlock saw Seb’s grin at the old joke, then as Sherlock worked, Seb’s reply came somewhat shakily, “Umm. Bulge bracket expanding. God, Belle. Why is it always sex in the early hours of the morning with you?”


	25. Chapter Twenty-five

**Chapter Twenty-five**

“Should I make an appointment with your secretary?” queried Sherlock.

Seb groaned as he lay and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck in contrition. “You’re never going to let that go, are you. Suppose I deserve it. How often do I have to apologise for being a psychological onanist?”

“At least once. I haven’t even _heard_ an apology yet.”

“I’m sorry.” Seb stretched out on top of Sherlock and kissed him. “”Sorry for…being so into the trappings, the lifestyle, then and before. I…” Unable to go on, he returned to kissing.

“So bullish,” said Sherlock on a sigh, against Seb’s warm lips.

“Like you’ve ever preferred bears.” Seb watched as Sherlock stretched, long and languid, and raised his arms up behind him to grasp the slats of the ornate bedhead. “Oh, what? _Really?_ ”

“I beg yours? I’m merely getting comfortable. Can I help it if my position is making you think of tying me to the bed with a selection of expensive ties and subjecting me to unspeakable acts whilst I’m at your mercy?”

Seb was back from his dash to his dressing room, ties in hand, before Sherlock had even finished. He jumped on the bed and eased over him, kissing and nipping at Sherlock’s ears and neck as he looped a strip of fabric round Sherlock’s pressed-together wrists and secured this to the metal behind him.

“ _God._ You look like a slutty Botticelli.” He gave up on words in favour of tugging at the end of the tie with his teeth, perhaps to check it was secure, perhaps to bite the fingers of Sherlock’s crossed-at-the-wrist hands. He tried to shutter his expression, hide under his eyelashes, but the eager twist of his mouth gave him away.

“We are so filming this next time,” he breathed, stopping off to kiss Sherlock hard, biting at his lips before journeying south to nip and tease. “Damn. I’m all out of nipple drops,” floated back up to Sherlock as Seb headed farther down. He trailed his hands down Sherlock’s body, scratching his nails in as he moved, exclaiming in delight at Sherlock’s stiff cock standing free and rubbing precum on his stomach. Sherlock was smiling too at the feel of Seb’s engorged prick rubbing against him. He arched a little, maybe preening a bit, enticing a lot, and loving the breathy sigh which applauded his performance.

“I’m not tying your ankles. I want your legs wrapped around me in about fifteen minutes,” Seb informed him, positioning himself between them. He reached out for…just lube, Sherlock noted. When had he last been fucked without a condom? He couldn’t remember. Wait. _Petroleum jelly?_ Did Seb think he was being _retro_ , for fuck’s sake? 

“Old school,” muttered Seb.

“Fifteen minutes?” Sherlock wriggled at the feel of Seb’s fingers on his perineum and gasped as Seb tickled and insulated his way inside Sherlock’s arsehole with the finger of his other hand. “ _Jesus_ , Seb. Oh. Are you going to do that thing? That…was you, wasn’t it?” It was. Had been. Sherlock had first been overwhelmed by, then whined for Seb’s expertly stimulating him from without and within for long, long minutes, driving him to the point of delirium, and only penetrating him when he was coming, for Seb to stay deep and ride the contractions, the convulsions before moving. All that without having to touch his prick.

“Next time, my wanton little early-Renaissance angel. I want to suck you before I take you, and it works better on girls, anyway.”

“But –”

“Shhh.”

Not that Sherlock had a chance of remaining silent, not with Seb bending low to lick and lap Sherlock’s precum, then sliding back up to lick his coated tongue along Sherlock’s lips, making him taste himself, feel the salt-slick of his eagerness. Sherlock put up a token resistance, turning his head away, only to have Seb catch it and twist it back dead centre, breathing hard as he opened Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, staring into his eyes the whole time. The look in his eyes told Sherlock this was just the preshow, and the main event was coming. “I’m at your mercy,” Sherlock murmured, noting Seb’s answering lupine smile.

Seb returned to his massage, plying the index and middle fingertips of both hands softly, pausing when Sherlock gave an extra-big squirm, before returning two lubed-up fingers of one hand to Sherlock’s passage. He easily breached the pucker to press up along the front wall and rub on the same bulbous spot he was working from the outside. He added a third finger, and the bed shook as Sherlock pulled hard on the frame in reaction.

“You’re so sensitive. We’ll have to work on that,” Seb commented softly. “You’re going to come if I carry on.”

“Or pee,” gasped Sherlock, helpless against the expert handling.

“Not really into that.” Seb withdrew his fingers and Sherlock instantly felt the loss of the fullness, the completeness. “God, Belle. You’re huge for me. Don’t know if I can suck you, like that.”

He licked his lips as he spoke, and Sherlock realised the talk was his benefit. But then Seb kicked off by widening the space between Sherlock’s legs to give him room to work. He took the base of Sherlock’s cock in one hand, resting his chin on the underside of his shaft and flicking the back of his tongue on a sensitive spot just below the head, in the centre of the ridge. Sherlock’s fingers were already grasping for the solidity of the bed to anchor himself, and he cried out as Seb swiped his tongue from side to side.

“Is that for your benefit or mine?” he wheezed. Seb didn’t answer. Unless reaching up to pinch Sherlock’s nipple – hard – counted. Seb made sure Sherlock was watching before he stuck out his tongue, showing it as flat as possible. He slowly ran it up Sherlock’s cock from base to tip, slathering the head with long licks when he reached it, glancing up at Sherlock from underneath his eyelashes.

“Oh, you little tart!” Sherlock was just gasping for breath now and thought he shrieked as Seb pulled away a fraction to blow softly on the wet heat.

“Calm down. I haven’t even got to my best moves yet. Have you still got that thing about no teeth?”

Seb must have had a lot of partners since him, but remembered him much better than Sherlock recalled Seb’s likes and no-go areas. That was almost alarming, as was Sherlock’s thrashing when Seb seemed to glue the back of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, pressing it backwards to create a perfect vacuum for even more perfect suction. And he timed it brilliantly, knowing just when to stop and let a heaving Sherlock breathe. Sherlock flicked his head to remove the tears which had formed in his eyes.

“I’m going lower.”

It took Sherlock a second to puzzle out the whisper, but its meaning became clear when Seb switched to his balls. _Raphe_ , his analytical mind unhelpfully supplied when Seb began a delicate licking of the vertical line bisecting the scrotal sac. Seb swiped a path down one side from the left, then trailed up and down the middle seam to map the bottom of Sherlock’s balls before making his way up the right-hand side. Sherlock’s blood was pounding so heavily and all his nerve endings had gathered in the area under Seb’s tongue that he couldn’t reason if Seb was tracing some letter or symbol, and if so, what.

“Oh, you’re bloody good at this.” Sherlock didn’t know if he was still coherent, but he must have been. Seb paused a second and swiped an errant strand of floppy fringe from his eyes.

“I’m _seriously_ good at this,” he corrected, his county tones rougher than usual. “Would you believe I attended a master class?”

“I’d believe anything of you.”

“Think this is good, wait for one of my foot rubs. You can’t hold out much longer –”

“Finish me.”

“Wanted to rim you, make you come like that.” Seb tried a Sherlock pout, but returned, swallowing Sherlock down to the root. Sherlock yelled and discovered his heels were drumming on Seb’s back. He scratched his toenails down hard as he tried to understand the rhythm, the fast and slow bobs of the head Seb was doing, but couldn’t analyse, couldn’t process or even think. All he knew was the tempo was building anticipation and then suddenly the heavy pressure massaging his balls tipped the rush of too-much, too-many, too-here, too-now sensation over into blinding white-hot heat and constriction he couldn’t resist, couldn’t shape; could only ride, shaking and arching.

He knew Seb didn’t, hadn’t let him free, but kept him in his mouth until long after, something extraordinary. Sherlock didn’t know what he’d yelled out, but thought “Jesus,” and “marry me,” had been some of it. He hoped not. Still gasping and panting, he watched Seb swallow, aided by gulps of water from the glass on the bedside table, but when Seb stretched up over Sherlock’s trembling, sweat-soaked body, his kiss still had enough of Sherlock in to make Sherlock learn intimately his own taste and want Seb to fuck him. He hadn’t thought the two could be connected, but...


	26. Chapter Twenty-six

**Chapter Twenty-six**

Seb held the water glass at Sherlock’s lips for him to swallow a mouthful. He needed it: his throat felt scraped raw. Seb waited calmly for him. Amazing he could be so seemingly unaffected.

“Vow of celibacy?” Sherlock coughed, then tilted his chin to indicate Seb’s arousal, ignored thus far.

Navy blue eyes met midnight dark ones. “No. I want you hard again when I fuck you.” Seb kneeled up to release Sherlock from the tie trapping him, but retied his left wrist and only let his right arm free. He smoothed greasy cream from the small pot onto the fingers of this, rubbing Sherlock’s hand between both of his to do so. 

“And this is for…”

“You to play with yourself, as I play with you. I love seeing you pull yourself a hard-on. God, Belle…” Seb leant back, raking his glance over Sherlock’s supine form in blatant admiration. “If you could see what you look like. So fucked-out already, when there’s more to come.”

Sherlock tried to assess. He was still sweating and gasping a little, his normally pale skin flushed in streaks. Still a little bruised, but he didn’t think that was a fetish of Seb’s. He must be tousled-haired, wild-eyed, swollen-lipped… He knew the sharp angle of his cheekbones beat red. His cock was flaccid, but trying its best to fill again. His pubic hair was damp, a little cum stained.

“I would adore a photo of you looking just like that.”

“So take one.” Sherlock feigned straining against the bond imprisoning his hand, bringing his other down to fondle his prick.

“I could never risk anyone, anywhere ever seeing it. Only me. So, we’re doing this bare? That’s a huge, serious deal.”

Not necessarily. We could still be using condoms with other partners, thought Sherlock, wondering at the tone and the leap in assumption.

“Just me, in you, no barrier.” Seb gently guided Sherlock’s hand to begin touching himself, exciting himself, as he spoke, murmuring the words in Sherlock’s ear. 

“Yes, your huge cock deep in me. Really deep. And huge.”

There was a pause. “Er, Sherlock, what say I do the dirty talk, hmm?” said Seb, pained. 

“Fair enough.” Sherlock wriggled himself more comfortable, grinning as his muscles reminded him he’d just had a monster orgasm. Seb pulled Sherlock’s hand, positioned his fingers at his hole, then pushed them in. He took over stimulating Sherlock’s prick.

“I don’t know if this is possible. I’m not nineteen,” said Sherlock, his voice catching and uneven.

“Yes, you are.” Seb pressed forwards and upwards to kiss him, deep and filthy, just for a moment before he pulled back, to slip a finger of his own in alongside Sherlock’s, making him gasp, especially as he added another. Seb’s cock was trapped between them. “You can take it. You always could. You might squirm and struggle, but you love it. You know you do. You want to get hard for me again. And you have to, or I won’t fuck you.”

Sherlock knew a great deal about biology, specifically anatomy, He understood the role of the parasympathetic nervous system in sexual activity, which nerves stimulated which muscle to allow blood to fill exactly which parts of the penis to rigidity for intercourse. He’d never understood, before, that the PNS must be connected to the ears and the brain. It must be – the filth Seb was growling in his ear was making the most lewd, arousing pictures in his mind’s eye, trying to help his cock out. And of course, the demanding, unceasing prostate and cock milking wasn’t unconnected either. 

“You’re by far the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucked,” Seb was whispering. “I wanted you the minute I saw you. Just wanted to bend you over and take you. Take that gorgeous arse. You’re like a fantasy. I couldn’t believe you were letting me have you, that first time. I wank to it all the time, you know. Your reactions, the noises you made, how it was all too much, you were too tight, I was too big, but you wanted it all, right then, right there, out in the open where anyone could see.”

Seb slipped Sherlock’s fingers free of his arse, which sucked at them as they pulled out. He guided Sherlock’s hand to his prick and ordered him to work it, told him which strokes to use. 

“Do you know what it means, that I was your first? How it made me feel? _Makes_ me feel? That we’re two halves of a whole, that we fit…” He pulled free of Sherlock to attend to his own hard-on and watched Sherlock. “So pretty. But I’m so turned on, this is going to be hard and fast. Can you come again?”

Sherlock made a vague noise. He didn’t think so, but thought he’d shortly be experiencing a dry orgasm.

“You’ve done so well. You deserve a reward.” Seb slid into position, kneeling in the space between Sherlock’s spread legs and in a rush, hooked Sherlock’s legs high over his shoulders, lifting his lower body off the mattress and onto Seb’s body. “Now I can get really deep inside you. I bet no one’s been as deep as me, have they?”

Sherlock couldn’t really answer, not with the head of Seb’s cock pushing against his entrance. He tried to push back, but controlling, even coordinating anything from that position was useless. He felt helpless. And so turned-on. Seb pushed, not as brutally as his words had led Sherlock to anticipate, but a hard, steady pressure, insistent and on the edge of hurting. He easily pushed through the ring of muscle: their prep had loosened it, and the quick stretch and burn as he seated himself had Sherlock crying out. Seb cried something too, but Sherlock couldn’t catch it, couldn’t process it, not with the pleasure and glory of that strong, inevitable stuffing. It made Sherlock’s spine arch more as he was impaled and filled. Then filled more as Seb inserted a finger too, alongside his cock. It was too much, of course, just as they both wanted it to be. Sherlock didn’t know if he was obeying Seb’s commands to keep working himself, but shuddered and shook into a full-body, rather than a dry orgasm as Seb came inside him.

When he’d eventually pulled out, Seb laid Sherlock’s legs flat on the bed. Sherlock released his wrist from the tie at the same time. He could have undone it at any moment, and Seb knew that, just as Sherlock knew Seb knew. He didn’t know why after a few minutes Seb turned his face slightly away from Sherlock as he lay beside him, both on their backs in otherwise perfect, blissed-out communion. 

“Oh, what?” Sherlock heaved himself over and prodded at the wetness on Seb’s face, moisture he couldn’t wipe onto the pillow quickly enough as he flopped facedown. “What’s this, you soppy idiot? Postcoital distress?”

“No,” returned Seb thickly from under the pillow he pulled over his head. Sherlock nosed his way under it, pushing into Seb like a cat, butting his head. He collapsed on his stomach too and placed a hand over Seb’s. He floated, drained but humming.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Seb began, his voice a soft thread in their shared private darkness, “but that was so perfect that if you were a woman, I’d be asking you to lie on the floor with your legs elevated against the wall to increase the chances I’d impregnated you.”

“I’m…not sure there’s a…right way to take that,” mused Sherlock, too well fucked to puzzle it through or get annoyed or upset at Seb’s proclivities. “But if you want me to dress up in drag, or wear a butt plug after you’ve left a load in me, just ask?”

Seb removed the pillow and faced Sherlock. “Would you?”

“Stroll on,” replied Sherlock, hoping he’d remembered the slang right.

“Telling me to get stretched?”

“To get loose, I think.” 

“Hmm.” Seb curled his leg over Sherlock and settled the pillows.

“I’m loose. And stretched. And having a lie-in tomorrow,” announced Sherlock.

“Jammy sod.”

“Not into that.”

“Don’t knock it till you’re tired of it.” They both frowned at Seb’s less-than-understandable comeback.

“Hey. That _was_ perfect. You can fuck me next time too.” Sherlock barely had to reach his face across to kiss Seb. He landed on his nose and upper lip.

“Oh, I’m doing all the work from now on, am I?” Seb rubbed his face against Sherlock’s.

“Darling, we can always get a little man in.”

“Just who was that supposed to be? Oh God. Kindly don’t bring my mother into bed.”

A sudden shrill yowling sounded up from the garden. “Go Beamish!” muttered Sherlock.

Seb shook his head. “That’s the Persian.”

“How do you know, pervert?”

“He’s caterwauling in Farsi.”

“Burke.”

“Sorry, Tajiki, rather.” Seb held up a finger and frowned in a listening pose.

“Edmund Burke. And talking of magnificent promises, if you were inclined to buy me a little something as a token of your esteem after that magnificent fuck, I could do with a scanning electron microscope. Either Hitachi or JEOL is fine.” Sherlock gave a bright smile which ended in a yawn.

“Right you are. New shirt it is then.” Seb gave a matching yawn. 

“Damn. That was such a good fuck, I want a cigarette.” Sherlock pouted, and Seb licked his sticking-out bottom lip.

“Can’t help there, but stick a hand under the bed for cravings supplies.”

Curious, Sherlock stretched over and down, not dislodging Seb’s leg from over his, and his fingers shaped small cans – fizzy drinks? – and small, rustling, wrapped rectangles. Chocolate bars. He pinched one upwards. “Ohhh. Can we eat in bed? What about the mess?”

“Says the man leaking spunk all over the sheet.”

Sherlock very considerately pulled Seb’s pyjama top down the bed to soak up the mess. He ripped open the paper and held the chocolate-covered treat in his mouth for Seb to bite off half for himself.

“I like it here,” Sherlock decided, settling back down flat and placing Seb’s arm around his waist.

“It likes you here, Belle. It really does. Just, trim your bloody toenails, yeah?” Seb then groaned as the dawn chorus started up outside.


	27. Chapter Twenty-seven

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

It was Sherlock’s turn to hold a pillow over his face a couple of hours later, trying to shut out the sight and sound of Seb getting up, showering and dressing. Suddenly the bed dipped and shook and rattled a little. Puzzled, Sherlock peeped out from one corner and saw Seb standing looking down at him as he tied his tie. The same tie.

“Oh. It’s creased,” Sherlock pointed out, grinning at the thought of Seb wearing it all day, after Sherlock had…worn it, or near enough in the earlier hours.

“Horror.” Seb’s grin matched his.

“Your face is creased.”

“Real horror. I dunno if I’m still asleep and dreaming this.” Seb did look exhausted. “I’m seriously thinking of snorting some vodka to perk up.”

“Christ, nasal vodka. Nature’s pick me up…”

“And keep me there. Lord. D’you remember that vodka-soaked-tampons craze?” Seb rubbed his backside and grimaced as he spoke.

“No,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Oh yes. You were never into all the stuff that filtered down via the ladies. You never hung around on girls’ nights. You should have.”

“And get accused of cock blocking you choosing from among your harem?”

“God, Sherlock. _Nice Day for a Sulk_?” Seb came and perched on the end of the bed.

“I’m not sulking. Really.” Sherlock laid a hand on Seb’s arm and squeezed as evidence. “I’m not such an idiot now. What I am doing is having a lie-in.” He stretched, wincing as his body felt the aftereffects of the early hours’ activity.

“Wish I could. Or at least take time off to be with you. Just I can’t what with all the quantitative easing bollocks at the moment. Can you at least meet me for lunch?”

“No. Not with all the smashing the illegal drugs flooding the nation’s capital crime at the moment.”

“I don’t consider your work in any way less important than mine and would never belittle it, so don’t take the piss out of mine, please.” That was probably the sharpest look Seb had ever given him. Well, that Sherlock could remember having been given, anyway.

“I worry about you, though. Of course I do,” Seb continued. “Oh, God. Alli.”

“She’ll be fine. I know the officer who’s posing as her work experience intern thing. Plus she’s got Frik and it’s only two days.” Sherlock patted Seb’s arm. He’d seen other people do that.

“When it’s over, can we do something?”

“Yes.” Sherlock had no idea what that could mean.

“What can I do now? How can I help?”

“I think I’ll need Frik, for various things. Could he be under me, not just under you? It would be simpler.”

“Of course. Wait. Is this the, ‘would you be up for a threesome?’ talk so early on in our relationship?” Seb patted him back. “Yes. I’ll sort it, and there’s a file with all my codes and fallbacks on the PC. The password’s – Oh, okay.” He responded to Sherlock’s rolling-eyed exasperation. “Knock yourself out. Not literally. Anything else?

“Hmm. Wouldn’t say no to brekkie in bed. In due time.”

“Mate. I’ll see what I can do.”

Even Seb couldn’t make Mags serve Sherlock breakfast in bed, it seemed. He heard the customary vacuum cleaner noise outside the bedroom door, which got louder as it pushed inside, then it stopped. The small, red-faced blonde woman had shut it off and was staring at him as he lay in Seb’s bed. She approached, having abandoned her normal practice of pretending he wasn’t there. 

“I don’t know you,” she began. Sherlock shrugged, then nodded. And he was fine with that state of affairs and recoiled as she came right up to loom over him. “But I do know Seb. He’s my friend. He…likes you. More than, if you get my meaning. I’ve seen all the photos of the pair of you. I know who you are to him. How upset he was before. And now you’re here. He’s never had anyone here. Not like…this.”

Sherlock tried to shift, sit up, squirm away – anything, but he was trapped as she kneeled on the bed, right in his face. She looked quite scary.

“And if you mess him about, upset him, hurt him in any way, you’ll be sorry. Starting with your Web site, then the Internet itself, Mr Consulting Detective. That’s all.” She gave a sharp nod and levered herself off to resume her vacuuming. Inside the bedroom. Banging into the bed. “Hurry up in the bathroom. I’ve got to clean in there,” she called above the noise. 

Sherlock tried to slide out of the bed, wrapping something around him. The woman took out a phone and snapped a picture. “Yeah,” she added, as he scurried off. 

Not fair, he was thinking resentfully as he left to meet up with Lestrade. Mrs Hudson was nice to Seb. He made a note in his book to get the scary little Mags some kind of gift. Maybe he should have got her something when he first arrived? After all, she probably had twice as much work now, even if Sherlock hardly ate anything? Did Seb require some sort of present too? Mrs Hudson would know. Oh, relationships were so _complicated_. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade had to hiss his name, cracking open the back of the van Sherlock had walked past. “Oi!” 

Oh right, the case. The van was an authentic Westminster District Surveyors one, as were the similarly coloured brown overalls Lestrade, Mistry, Jones and Miller were wearing, and a set of which Donovan held out.

“At least turn your back,” Sherlock requested, taking them and clearing a space amongst the various boxes and cables and detectives.

“I’ve seen it all before.” Donovan shrugged.

“Not mine you haven’t.”

“Yes I have.”

They all stared at Sherlock as he tried to remember. “Not recently,” was his comeback. Donovan held her clipboard in front of her face as he changed. Sherlock inspected them as they exited, adjusting a tool belt here, a baseball cap here. “And you’ve got the faked complaint e-mail?”

Donovan rolled her eyes. “I do know how to do my job?”

“Yes, you’re dressed exactly right.” Sherlock nodded. Not too casual, rather frumpy looking with twisted back hair and clumpy shoes, Donovan made the perfect fake supervisor of the Westminster South 'front line' building control team. 

“And my brother-in-law’s a surveyor, and he wears this sort of short-sleeved shirt and clip-on tie under his overalls like this,” muttered Mistry. “These are spare pencils and pens of his.” Firmly ensconced since sticking his neck out on the less-than-sanctioned but successful Chelsea harbour stakeout, he was now Lestrade’s shadow. 

“I hope this lot are less snooty than the Harbour snobs, from what you’ve been going on about.”

“We won’t be seeing the curator,” Sherlock told the somewhat nervous Miler as they entered the ancient portals of the Royal Pharmacy Society museum building. “We’ll be fobbed off with some admin assistant, but they can’t refuse us anything; the museum is run by the Museums of London body, so it has to be accountable.”

“Wow.” Donovan broke character briefly as she took in the room’s enormous arched recessed ceiling with its murals. Sherlock was more interested in the wide central stairway leading to the next level. He spun around to take in the next floor, which surrounded this entrance space. The first floor’s former classrooms, used when this building had originally been a teaching hospital, had been knocked through and remade into several exhibition rooms. They were locked when the museum closed for the day and when the entrance hall and garden were hired out for the evening, but guests could ascend the staircase to view the famous artworks hung on the walls of the next floor and the antiques scattered about on their plinths. And probably find an unlocked room to trade in.

A man hurried out from behind a glass display case and shimmied around the hall’s graceful decorative columns to greet them.

“We’re never had a complaint before,” he began, smoothing back a lank fringe. “We have wheelchair ramps, disabled toilets, wide access lifts –”

“See for yourself, sir.” Donovan unclipped a sheet of paper, and the man studied it. “It was more a visitor being nervous at the old-looking nonstandard electrics and worrying about exits and procedures in case of a fire? City of Westminster council takes compliance with building regulations seriously.”

“As do we! We all want safety!” cried the man. “We hold fire safety drills!”

“It’s fire _engineering_ we have to think of.” Sherlock was getting bored. He had things to do.

“Yes, our specialist support team Building Regulation Engineering Group has a mechanical and an electrical engineer –”

“And a surveyor,” interrupted Mistry, earning a glare. He patted his pocketful of pens and pulled out the end of his retractable tape measure. 

Lestrade held up a voltmeter. “Check your energy efficiency, while we’re here,” he offered.

“So if the team could get on?” Donovan asked a bit tersely. “We’d better see the garden too, what with hiring it out as you do. That comes under Temporary Structures for Special Events.” She flipped through a few pages.

“Drainage and sanitation,” added Mistry.

“Geotechnics,” capped Sherlock. 

They were soon left to themselves, passes clipped to them, and the man weakly muttering they were to page him if they needed _anything_ and were to help themselves to coffee and tea in the Employees Only room; he’d clear it. He was calling his code for the photocopier after them as they strode away. 

“Health and Safety,” called Miller to rooms’ users, flashing a spurious card as he guarded half-open doorways, enabling Sherlock to use his magnifier and learn which doors were opened more often, and by less-than-official keys. Seems Rufus or his pushers were fond of the Ceramics Room, housing the seventeenth and eighteenth century delftware drug jar collection, and also keen on the History Laboratory with its displays showing the use of controlled substances such as cocaine, opium, morphine and heroin as pharmaceutical treatments throughout the ages. Seb was right; the arrogant bastard needed catching for that alone.

Jones was enjoying himself wincing and muttering and calling out invented codes for Donovan to record as he measured doorways, windows, counted the number of electrical sockets and light switches per room and the distance of both from the floor, for some reason. His antics diverted attention away from Lestrade and Sherlock, who were sneakily installing wireless surveillance cameras. 

“Alli says – what? What’s that grin for?” muttered Lestrade, securing the ladder for Sherlock. “And what are you counting for? What?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock came down and wiped his hands. On the handy overalls. Really, useful things for practical work. Maybe in a more flattering colour and cut, for lab work… “Go on about Alli? Twenty-five?”

“And I’m not sure that blond kickboxer-looking bloke you sent to Alli is… Well, she says Rufus doesn’t always go to these, er, transactions. He doesn’t work much Mondays, by all accounts, and he’s not planning on being at the one here tomorrow.”

“Mmm. So we have to lure him out.”

“How?” Lestrade looked busy paying out a cable from a roll and holding up his meter as a group passed. 

“Entice him with something he’ll angle for. A big fish.”

“Yeah, you know I get lost when you go all clever?” 

Sherlock sighed as Donovan joined them in the tiny blind corridor leading to the blocked-off door into the big room where they were attaching the final camera just in case. “I’m going to offer him something big he won’t be able to resist.”

Donovan sniggered. “Sorry. Just my mind went to a strange place then.”

“Maybe it wasn’t that strange,” replied Sherlock, licking his lips and staring at her.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade sounded worried now.

“Can’t stop. We’re done here. Sally can wrap up with the jobsworth. Remember to make sure the van with the receiver’s in range when we need to see the vid signal fed from the transmitter. I must be off. Don’t want to be later for my elocution lesson.”


	28. Chapter Twenty-eight

**Chapter Twenty-eight**

“Jesus! Last time I looked, this was my bloody office,” Lestrade griped, returning later that evening. He closed the door. “Put in a request for your own – Jesus Christ! What’s he doing here?”

_I merit a Christ, but Frik, the full name._ Interesting, thought Sherlock. Also interesting was seeing Lestrade react not to a man practically jumping out at him from the corner of his own office, but to who the man was. He was glaring at the tall, wiry, spiky-haired blond. “If he’s here, what about…”

“Who?” asked Sherlock, not really hiding his smirk.

“Alli!”

“Thirty.” Sherlock was including the texts he’d received that afternoon in his tally. “She’s fine. Frik wouldn’t leave his post until he’d been relieved.” And Seb had been most unamused to be called out of a briefing at the Bank of England by the receptionist, mobiles not being allowed. But still he’d arranged it.

“Relieved? Another guard, you mean?”

What else could he mean? Sherlock wasted a few seconds trying to puzzle that out.

“By whom?”

And another silly question. He wouldn’t know the man.

“Binjimin.” Frik answered, and Lestrade frowned, trying to understand the accent.

“Benjamin? Sounds a bit, I don’t know, weedy?”

“Tell him that, sir. He’s ex-Mossad.”

“He Kidons you not,” threw in Sherlock.

“Yis, he’s a safe Shin Bet.”

“Do what?” Lestrade was not amused.

“Sorry. Jewish close protection humour.” Sherlock waved a hand.

“Aman to that,” replied Frik. Sherlock quite liked hanging around with him.

“Please don’t worry, sir. I assure you he’s extremely capable. He’s our Krav Maga trainer as well.” Frik gave a little bow, and Sherlock saw Lestrade relax a tad.

“Well, if Alli –”

“Thirty-one,” remarked Frik to Sherlock, and Lestrade threw up his hands and started to rail at them, but Frik suddenly held up a hand in a fist gesture. Silence. There came a knock at the door, and the three men stood, waiting, ready…for Billy from Angelo’s to stick his head in. With Sherlock’s suit for the evening. And items on loan from Angelo’s…contacts.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes, I should charge you rent. Or just give you a warrant card, handcuffs and say have at it. Oh, wait. I did that the day we met, didn’t I. I just didn’t know it.” Lestrade was sour. 

There came another knock. Frik narrowed his eerie sky-blue eyes. “Timid. A skirt.”

“A woman,” Sherlock translated. “Young.”

“Under twenty-five. Brunette,” Frik continued. 

“You two even _sound_ the bloody same. Were you separated at birth? Come in. Everyone. Party sodding central here.”

It was a technician, young, female, dark-haired to set Sherlock up with a wire for the evening’s work. “We’ll need the task force in. And some tea,” said Sherlock.

“Scones, cucumber sandwiches?” Lestrade was even sourer.

“Got any biltong?” asked Frik. 

“Lestrade, we’ll need to call Alli soon. Or now. She knows everybody, and we need an entrée. Do you happen to have her number?” Frik kicked him under the table as Sherlock said this, and Sherlock kicked him back, lowering his head to hide a grin.

 

‘“The boy stood on the burning deck; his legs were all a quiver. He gave a cough, his leg fell off and floated down the river,”’ recited Sherlock an hour or two later.

As he might have expected, his phone buzzed a text. From Sally. A terse WTF??

“I was told to test the mic’s levels from time to time,” replied Sherlock, pretending he was taking a call just inside the plain ’60s looking street entrance where he was waiting for the lift. The entrance to what his grandmother referred to as the ‘Tom and Jerry roof gardens’ and his grandfather patiently corrected to the former name of the Derry and Toms gardens was easily missed, mainly as it was on a different street. Although to the right of the door there was a discreet plaque bearing the street name and number of what Seb probably referred to as the Virgin roofs. Sherlock hadn’t had to wait outside in the street to gain entrance; whoever’s party he was crashing was small, and they hadn’t booked the entire roof gardens. These events were small beer, as Rufus had said.

Sherlock quoted again once he arrived in the first section: “How many flowers can you see, in an English country gar- _ashoo!_ Sorry. Bloody spring flowers.” He wondered if Lestrade’s team could pick up the quacking and squabbling of the huge birds fighting for scraps, despite the notices not to feed them. He peered at the incoming text. _Alli said to tell you to watch out for the flamingos after what happened with those ducks in the Meadows. GL._ Sherlock knew how slowly Lestrade texted. He’d obviously had that stored to send. 

“Thirty-seven. And I won,” replied Sherlock, and “Olé” as he crossed the Spanish Garden. He switched to song in the next garden, and gave them a burst of _Greensleeves._ This time the text was from Sally: _Stick to detecting, yeah?_ The party was in the Clubhouse’s roped-off section of these gardens, the Tudor Marquee. Nothing historical about that bit of the club, Sherlock was relieved to note. No jousts or roasting oxen; just it was connected to the Tudor Gardens. Which were replete with nooks, secret corners, hideaways and high hedges. He sneezed again. Thank God they weren’t trying to monitor this venue. If anyone bolted from the rooftop paradise in the heart of central London, they could be in for a quick one-way trip down to the High Street. 

There were already people waiting to get into the club, even this early before it opened, but Sherlock breezed into the private do. He did a sweep of the club’s rooms and bars and tables. All carefully guarded. Nothing untoward happening or could. Too high profile. And too bloody expensive. 

“These Blackberry Boogie cocktails look tempting,” he murmured. There was a pause. The teams were obviously waiting for its most Internet-savvy member to look up the prices. Yes, a text: _Detective Inspector Lestrade asks if you could please stick to the free wine as you’re being financed from the slush fund. Thank you._ He wondered what Lestrade’s actual words had been. “Hmm. This High as a Quoit is delicious,” he muttered as he fake-sipped the drink provided.

_You’ll be drinking out the duck pond the rate you’re going, sunshine._ Seemed Lestrade had a willing and speedy texter in Mistry. 

Braying, entitled tones approaching made him check his watch. Yes, twenty past the hour. The public schoolboy ten minutes. And there was his quarry. His pink-shirted quarry. Not even Seb had anything that flamingo-hued in his wardrobe, although it could be seen as fitting the surroundings. At least the man wasn’t wearing red trousers. He gave the group a minute to settle around a table before seating himself at one to the side of them, then easing around the potted orange tree between himself and – Simon? It had begun with S. He stood behind the berk and announced, “Guess who?”

The slicked-back head spun around. “Oh, hi.” Shane or Sean was playing it cool. Or cold. 

“Sim? Intros? Do we have to have the sharing talk again?” asked one of his companions. _Ah, Simeon._ Could even be Simian. Certainly something chimpish about that blueprint or past impression of a moustache and beard. Stubble so designer it could have come from the Paris collections. This wasn’t helping. Sherlock supposed he should be glad he looked younger than his age. He seemed to fit into the group well enough.

“Some guy I met at the last Grant’s. Who fake-numbered me.” Sim slotted his dark glasses into the neck of his shirt. Yeah, didn’t really need them in this dim light.

“No! I didn’t!” Sherlock sat down, plonked his drink with him.

“Yah. I called you. Got some unknown bloke in a rage. Weird.”

“Oh bugger. I gave you my SA number, didn’t I. Can we try again? Or…am I too late?” Sherlock flashed his expensive watch revealed by his rolled-back sleeve as he glanced around the table. It trumped any card any of them might have played. He took out car keys, then his state-of-tomorrow’s-art mobile, the one there was a waiting list for, and pressed Sim’s number he’d put in when they’d met. A phone rang. “There. There’s mine. Give it here. I’ll see to it.”

“Hmm. Didn’t see you after.” Sim snapped his fingers for the waiter. Sherlock used the opportunity to turn their seats away from the rest. He resumed eye contact and felt the idiot practically going under.

“Yah. Had to scoot. Got a call. Boss lady. ’Fraid I’m a walker.”

“What? As in little old Upper East Side ladies?”

“Replace that with a young blonde South African safari princess – not yet a princess actually – and yeah. I’m a hag fag. It works both ways.”

“I’m all ears.”

Sherlock admired his own restraint there in not going for the cheap shot. “Oh, she’s an old friend who was kind to me when I was shipped out to the colonies. Took me under her wing, and now I’m her wingman. It’s a great cover for both of us. I keep a lid on things, run interference for her… We keep each other’s families off our backs.”

“Who?” The music was getting louder now, and more people were arriving. Great excuse to huddle closer. 

“Friend, I’m not naming names! Let’s just say an SA name. Huge…tracts of land.”

“Please!”

When the idiot pouted a little, Sherlock bent to whisper a name right in his ear, and the man’s eyes opened wide.

“But she lives the straight and narrow here in London! She’s –”

“I’m doing a good job then! Should ask for a bloody raise for being at her ladyship’s beck and call. Well, I can’t complain. I like the private jets and the golden invites to the Dubai world cup and the New York Winter ball, the Cartier goodie bags for attending a hotel opening in hell knows where.”

“I see. May I?” 

Sherlock passed over his watch for Sim to try on. He circled his fingers around the man’s wrist as he closed it for it, felt him shiver. Tosser. 

“Nice. When are these out?”

“Waiting list’s closed. Even Goldenballs couldn’t get on. Not even begging for it like Beckham.” Sherlock suddenly felt weary and hoped the team were appreciating this. “But I wanted to talk to you. I do her dirty work, as it were.” Of course brain donor didn’t get it, so Sherlock sniffed theatrically. “She has to keep her…hands clean, if nothing else.”

“Gotcha.”

“Anyway, tonight’s my night off. She promised. So I fancy a little something just for me.”

“Not a prob. Drink up, we’ll have a bop, then I’ll take you meet a mate.” 

As they ‘danced’, Sherlock was so very glad there was no video surveillance of the operation. As it was, he could have sworn he heard Sally laughing.


	29. Chapter Twenty-nine

**Chapter Twenty-nine**

“But he’s a bloody kaff – I mean’s he’s bl – Oh fuck! Which one do you say in NY and which in London?” Sherlock hoped Frik was listening and was pleased with the results of his voice coaching and crash course in cultural mores.

“Paulo’s solid.” Sim clapped a hearty hand on the small, thin waiter’s shoulder. 

“Yis, no offence. Just not used to your sort, friend.” Sherlock flashed a tight smile and gave the tiniest dab of his fingertips to Paulo’s arm.

“None taken.” 

But Sherlock rather thought there was. Sim seemed to pick up on something. 

“He’s Afrikaner, or something, Paulo. Just arrived. It’s like the land that time forgot there in Happy Valley.”

Sherlock gave a rueful shrug, rustling the thin vines of the weeping willow next the pond screening them in a corner just past the arched cloisterlike walk. 

“I don’t care.” But the look in the man’s eye said he did as he took some folded notes from Sim and handed over a small squat package. The look sharpened as Sherlock handed over his money to Sim, for Sim to make the exchange for him. Sherlock wanted out of there. The plashing of the pond and the scents of the flowers were closing him in. 

“Hey, that’s me sorted. Cheers, my friend. Oh and tomorrow I’ll need more.”

“Oh no, _friend_. We have strict rules about frequency of usage. We don’t do two in a row.”

“It’s not for me. What? What’s that look for, man?”

Sim stepped between them and spoke softly into Paulo’s ear, explaining. The waiter’s eyes widened. It was a big fish he was getting handed on a plate. Sherlock nodded. “She can’t take the risk of a dry white season, if you get me. Oh, no offence.”

“Still can’t help. We have to know who we’re dealing with.”

_To_ , you mean, thought Sherlock. “Well, I’d bring her, but she’s, well, not as liberal as I am. Plus she doesn’t do well with small fry.”

“Maybe she’d like to meet with the boss direct.” 

“And he’s…”

“As white as the driven snow, yes.”

Sim started snorting with laughter at Paulo’s double witticism and backslapped him, almost making him knock over the plastic chiller transport box the waiter had near his feet. Clever. No one looked twice at a caterer carrying those around at events like these. “How about I get everybody happy tomorrow?” Sim said, everyone’s best friend.

As they jumped over the edge of the pond to stroll along the covered walk, Sherlock noticed the man who’d worked the door at the event in the gallery. Like a receptionist, he seemed to be monitoring the appointments, yet everything stayed so light, so casual. The operation was working well. Interesting to dismantle it. 

“Hey, friend.” And the ridiculous man was imitating Sherlock’s assumed accent. “Don’t go rushing off into the night again like Cinderella. Oh, you know what’s happening tonight?”

“Not exactly.” Sherlock hoped it didn’t involve him having to ingest the drugs. That would make his analysis difficult. Not impossible, just difficult. 

“Ols has got a table at the Palace!” 

The way the last word was said, Sherlock very much doubted it has anything to do with Buck House. He made a puzzled face.

“The Palace of Varieties VIP nightclub in Soho, you bloody colonial!”

“Oh! Isn’t that just hardcore porn pretending to be some sort of burlesque show?”

“You say harcore porn, I say an erotic, nay sexually explicit cabaret and a bloody good night out!” Ols said as he came up and joined them. Yes, he was the one with the red trousers, Sherlock recalled. The other one who looked the same as Ols but taller and thinner was Cals, and the one with the lip-curling leather flying jacket was Jack. 

“But I had to get a table. Lucky I know people. Because tonight is the Spanish Roses of Harlem!”

“The…” Nothing in Seb’s gossip mags had covered this.

“The Hispanic triplets from the States?” Jack.

“Transsexuals.”

“Or hermaphrodites.”

“But definitely contortionists. They come in on trapezes! And later they do that thing with the vodka? Where they light themselves?”

Cals and Ols seemed to be into it. “But seriously, anything goes there.” Ols nodded. “No need to find a quiet spot for one’s erm, refreshment. It’s just a good place to get fucked-up.”

“And fucked?” Sherlock muttered to Sim, receiving a chorus of whoa-ho-hos. He really hoped this was near the end of it. He was too old for this. “So, Soho? Where?”

“Thought you were at uni with Jamie Grant?” remarked Sim, staring at him.

“Not in bloody Soho,” replied Sherlock, willing Mistry to be looking up the club’s address. “I don’t mind slumming it, I suppose. Local colour and all that. Oh, no offence. Bloody political correctness. I can’t get the hang of it.”

He stopped listening as Sim filled the others in on Sherlock’s outdated, outrageous behaviour. Sherlock looked around. There were normal people here, enjoying the evening, strolling or queuing for the club or making their way to the restaurant. Never a fan of normal, he nevertheless envied them now. Sherlock suddenly wracked his brains, hoping he hadn’t pissed off anyone in Lestrade’s team, and they’d rescue him sooner rather than later. Donovan was the only one who might think it funny to leave him longer, let him enter the hell that the ‘cabaret’ club undoubtedly was. Oh no, he should be okay – the club was famously expensive and Lestrade too budget conscious to allow him to set foot in it and buy drinks. Thank God for all the rules and regulations that hamstrung Lestrade’s job at every turn.

But for now he was stuck in this nightmare of an evening with this party of chinless, brainless wonders when he’d much rather be at home, working on his thesis in his new lab, calling to Seb in his study. No, better yet, in front of the Aga eating what Seb called American toast, meaning it was disgusting with peanut butter and chocolate spread, as they tried to cap each other’s jokes and puns. Wait. Home? He hadn’t meant… No. He…didn’t.

He was quite glad when the group decided to move on as it made him stop musing on this. Even if Sim did slap him on the arse and pronounce it, “primo.” 

“Thought you had a bloody table?” he griped as they stood in the filthy alleyway, waiting in the short queue to get through the wooden door, jealously guarded by an earpiece-wearing man with the say on who was in and who was out, literally. His clipboard obviously served as the recording book.

“Gotta get there to tell him. Nearly there,” soothed Ols. “Do some people watching while we’re waiting.” Sherlock had. He thought they were all idiots. Oh hell, they were almost at the door. He really didn’t want to have to go in. Even if part of the act involved a triple-ended dildo.

“How can it be triple-ended?” He had to fight to keep the irritation from his tone.

“It’s Y-shaped, dude? Triplets, remember?”

Then there came a beeping of a taxi’s horn from the end of the alley. Right on the pavement. Everyone turned as its door slammed. Thank fuck, thought Sherlock, already weak-kneed with relief at the mere sight of the blond-haired man in the dark suit and dark glasses who came up to him and spoke quietly but with force, his South African accent thick.

“Sir. You know you’re not allowed at places like this. You know the terms of your curfew. Time to go.”

“Hey, steady on!” cried Sim as Frik put a hard hand around Sherlock’s arm.

“What if I don’t want to go?” said Sherlock, trying to pull his arm free.

“We either go in the taxicab or we go in the taxicab.”

“What’s the difference?” Sim was brave. Or stupid. He probably thought the latter when Frik removed his dark glasses and ran his unsettling blue gaze over him.

“The second is via the hospital to have the bullet extracted from his leg. I take my job seriously. His parents pay me well to do just that.” He moved so they could see the gun in its shoulder holster. “I’m easy. I’m not going to bother counting.” He just stood and waited. One second.

“All right! Sweet Baby Jesus! Look, see you guys around, yeah? Call me, Sim?” Sherlock was tugged down the alley, a chorus of jeers and expletives in his wake, and laments he’d miss the act with the golden shower from above. As he’d expected, Lestrade was waiting in his car, into which Frik handed him. 

“Thanks. Really.” Sherlock’s words were heartfelt, and Frik grinned.

“No worries, man. Have to get back to my charge now, relieve Ben.”

“Alli,” chipped in Lestrade, as if there was any doubt. “Hand over that packet. Discreetly!”

“Everything organised at Barts?”

“Yes. Hey, listen. Just between us. You didn’t enjoy any of that, did you?”

Sherlock looked at him, searching his eyes.

“At least tell me you didn’t drink any of those cocktails. I mean, some of them were over twenty quid! For a bloody sip of pop in a tiny glass! It’s criminal!”

And it was so Lestrade, phrasing matters in that way rather than dwell on things, even if they were questions he needed answers to, Sherlock smiled.

“No. I didn’t even have any free wine. It was all disgusting. Swill. Who was it said that?”

“Alli,” replied Lestrade, pride in his voice, and Sherlock laughed this time.


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter Thirty**

“Sally, is that really necessary? I feel I ought to be pouting at the lens while making smutty allusions to creaming something.”

“Hang on.” Donovan stopped fiddling with the camera, and Sherlock paused in his preparations. “Was that you making a joke? And I don’t mean those ‘witty’ remarks you were coming out with all night.”

“I hope you gave me the benefit of the doubt for being in disguise.”

“So, the Nigella impression with the pots and pans?”

“Beakers and tubes, but why not.” Sherlock posed for the camera with a squashy bag of reagent before placing it on his bench.

“I’d say you’d been replaced with a pod person, but there could only ever be one of you. Just wondering why all the good mood when it’s sod knows what o’clock and we’re all knackered?”

“The case is nearly finished! Of course he’s cheerful,” Mistry butted in.

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock stopped adjusting the magnification on his two microscopes and frowned.

“What’s this, a bloody WI meeting? For fuck’s sake!” Lestrade strode right up to Sherlock and leant over his workbench. “You know, the police lab at Lambeth has everything we need to conduct these analyses properly, following procedure. But oh no, you’ve got your favourite lab, so here we are.”

“Yes, because –”

“And without permission. Meaning working through the night and that the only way to document things is by filming and writing them down! So bloody deal with Donovan trying to get an Oscar for best documentary and me listing each stage, every test and reaction you run.”

“And me spelling them for you,” muttered Sherlock, not liking Lestrade’s heavy breathing and pissed-off face looming over him.

“Not necessarily.” Mistry brandished what Sherlock recognised as a first year chemistry text book.

“Your…nephew’s?”

Mistry nodded and lined his notebook and pens up.

“So less chatting and more working! Sherlock, no Naked Cheffing, and Donovan, less Michael sodding Moore.”

“So I can’t dip my finger in Sample A and lick it?” Sherlock advanced his index finger towards the glass dish of white powder labelled A, and Lestrade let out a mixture of a scream and a groan.

Things quietened down. Miller was almost asleep, slumped on his bench, and Sherlock assumed Jones was kipping in his chair outside the door.

“I’ll test for adulterants after,” Sherlock informed the room at large. “Their presence won’t affect the qualitative examination anyway, but we need to know if the same have been added to both samples, in addition to knowing if the composition of the two samples is identical. I mean, the packaging was identical, and –”

“It’s not a bloody docudrama! Just tell me what that liquid is and what it’s for.”

“Marquis reagent. Initially colourless, as you see.” Sherlock tweezered grains of powder onto two plaques and added a drop from the pipette to both. “Now showing exactly the same deep purple colour with both samples. Positive for diacetylmorphine and both samples exactly the same strength.”

Mistry leapt forwards to store the plaques and label them. Just then everyone whipped around as the door to the lab opened quietly and slowly. Seb came in. Equally as quietly and slowly. He shifted his bag to one side and looked around the room at large before his gaze fell on Sherlock at its head. Sherlock tugged off the ugly lab safety goggles.

“Oh, hullo there.”

Sherlock gauged how nervous Seb was from the degree of Eton drawl in his tone and the number of fingers he used to push back his fringe.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Lestrade demanded.

“Oh, the guard chappy’s, erm, napping. That’s why I’m whispering.”

“Jones!”

That would have woken him, Sherlock judged, that or the laser-hard glare and the barked order to switch places with Miller as Lestrade obviously needed to keep the idiot Jones under his eye.

“Oh, and oh yes, who the hell are you?”

“He’s here to see me,” Sherlock threw in.

“Oh you are, are you?” Lestrade should really get his blood pressure checked, thought Sherlock, wondering if he should rummage around for a sphygmometer and offer to do it for him. “Why would that be, then?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” breezed Seb.

“It really does. Sir.”

“Well, if you insist, cards on the cliché and so on, I was going to ask why I’d been sent photos of Sherlock necking with some oily-haired twerp at the Virgin roof gardens before going on to the Palace club? I mean, I knew there must be some mistake; that place is a frightful nouveau bitch dive, but I’m presuming it was a) for a case; b) for science; c) not to make me jealous; d) all of the above and e) you’ll want some supper. Kettle crisps and extra big cartons of Ribena Toothkind. Midnight feast of champs.”

He held out the bag as he approached Sherlock’s bench, a pleasant smile on his face. It was a reusable woven bag from the Hampstead farmers’ market, and Sherlock started to laugh.

“Only you, Seb.”

“Seb…astian? Mr Sebastian Wilkes? A word, please.” And Lestrade actually pushed his right hand, curled into a tight fist, into the palm of his left hand. There was a hard smacking noise. Everyone stared at everyone else.

“Oh Lord. Just so’s you know, Sherbet, if anything should happen to me, you’re my next of kin.” Sebastian said out of the side of his mouth.

“Am I really?”

Seb considered. “Oh, do you know, I think it’s still Alli? Please don’t let her destroy the genuine Mapplethorpe in my dressing room. It’s my secret guilty pleasure.”

“Can’t promise that, mate. You know what a demon she is for nailing one’s prized possessions to the ceiling when she finally snaps.”

“Now, if you please, Mr Wilkes?”

There was thick silence as the two left. Sherlock wondered what Seb could have been up to. At least he wasn’t in cuffs. He’d never learnt how to pick locks.

“So.” Donovan waited thirty seconds longer than Sherlock had thought she would. Interesting. She’d make inspector one of these days. “He’s…here to see you, yeah?”

Interesting approach too. “Umm.”

“Explains it.”

“It? It what?”

“Everything.”

“How elliptic. Get Mistry to look that up for you. Second test. Noll’s reagent. Colour spectrum should be as follows.” He rattled off the colours in a rush to piss them off.

Seb was paler when he and Lestrade came back in. Lestrade was smiling in satisfaction and rubbing his right fist in his cupped left hand now. Sherlock paused to study Sebastian. Casual clothes, creased where he’d been sitting and pacing, waiting. Not the best choice of shoes for the trousers. (Brooding on the photo, then decided all of a sudden to go after Sherlock.) Sherlock would have to pickpocket Seb’s phone to see who’d sent him the photo, but he’d thought he’d recognised a face sitting listening to the light jazz combo.

“Okay?”

“Ye…ah. Tell you later,” Seb replied, on eye on Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, may Sebastian act as my assistant? He’s done some of his best work in a lab. Knows his way around a stirring rod.” No one laughed at the way Sherlock put the weight on the last word in that sentence, although Seb gave a weak smile. Sherlock took Lestrade’s curt nod for permission and beckoned Seb to him.

“Better living through chemistry. Again,” Seb remarked as he helped himself to a lab coat and struggled into latex gloves. “Clamp?”

“If you would.”

Seb took the neglected fastener from a used foil packet of solution and clipped Sherlock’s fringe back.

“Straw.” Sherlock nodded at the bag, and Seb retrieved a carton of drink. “Mouth, not nose, these days,” muttered Sherlock, and Seb gave a tiny laugh as he shoved the straw through the hole and held the box up for Sherlock to drink from, squeezing it when it soon grew empty from Sherlock’s thirsty suck.

“Tongs?” he enquired.

“I rather think so.”

Everyone watched Seb wield stiff metal tongs to feed Sherlock crisps one by one. “There’s plenty to go around,” said Seb, passing the drinks and snacks bag over to Jones.

“So you’re…friends,” commented Donovan. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slotted in the slide for the first microscopic test.

“Umm. Awww, fweend. Lab fweend. Police case fweend.” answered Seb in a weird voice, and although Sherlock didn’t get the reference, nearly everyone else cracked up.

“Don’t mind me. I’ll go back to my…whipping and beating,” he replied. “Hand me the mercuric iodide.”

“ _Oui_ , Marie. _Tout de suite_.”

_“_ So committee member Liza sent the pic, and Frik informed you of my whereabouts?”

“Umm. You’re not answering your phone.”

“Bugger.” His phone was switched off now; he’d had his chip in the fake techno-bling one for the evening. “I texted, said I’d be late. You weren’t worr –”

Lestrade gave the fakest cough ever. “Don’t let me interrupt you, gents, or rush you, Sherlock, but we do need these analyses to get the warrant for the bust and arrests? Yeah, I know we’ve got probable cause, but I want the evidence stacked up so high, it’ll push that bastard and his gang right to jail, if that’s all right with you?”

“Fine. I’ll give you all the identical impurities and adulterants you can handle.” Sherlock was testing the two samples at once, using both hands, then two microscopes to quicker compare the two reactions.

“Is it wrong that I got a bit turned on by that promise?” Seb murmured, reaching for a salt and vinegar crisp for Sherlock, who was grinning too much to munch.


	31. Chapter Thirty-one

**Chapter Thirty-one**

“That smell of vinegar is making me think I’m at the seaside, and now I want chips for breakfast,” whined Seb. It was later, or early, and the task force had gone. 

“Acetic acid,” corrected Sherlock. “It enabled us to see those pretty rosette shapes you liked so much.”

“Belle, can I talk about something?”

Sherlock looked up from his sketchy cleaning. Saw a serious face. “Do you still want me to meet your folks? Is that it?”

“Oh! Who’s been at the platinum chloride? _Sherlock?_ Oh…”

“Ah, Molly. Great timing. Come in.” He pretended not to hear her mutter, “I _work_ here,” as she approached. “I’ve been availing myself of your kindness. In your absence. And…ignorance. Here’s your missing pass back. Thank you. Sebastian Wilkes, this is Molly Hooper.”

Molly wiped her hand down her lab coat before shaking Seb’s. 

“Molly, you were kind enough to offer, but I’ve been staying with Seb since 221B was designated a probable target.”

“Pesky terrorists,” added Seb. “Breakfast, Molly? Hope you like crisps.”

What Molly did like was John. This should be interesting. She looked from Sherlock to Seb.

“Oh. You’ve got a cat.” She pointed at some hair on his trousers, near the flies, then blushed and whipped her hand down.

“Three. And a half. There’s a Persian, but he isn’t mine,” replied Seb.

_Neither are the black and whites._ “We’re not taking this ‘meeting the family’ in turn, are we, Seb. Because Molly’s the closest I have or that I want to have to a sister.”

“Oh.” Molly teared up, more so when Seb handed her a carton of drink. 

“Is there anywhere I can get a coffee?” Seb asked her.

“I’ll get you one. Black, two sugars?”

“Erm, fine, yes. I’ll make it. I’m sure you have a change jar I should put into.” Oh, he was good with families. People.

“Go. I’ll clear up.” A bit. Molly liked doing that. She hadn’t taken her security pass off the bench so he pocketed it. Again.

 

“Nice tits on that wench,” commented Seb a little later in the cab.

“You caught the ‘considered a sister’ part? And no, no threesome. Yuk – breasts.”

“Hmm. You’d be more amenable to it with the dishy DI.” 

Sherlock caught a flatness in the tone and narrowed his eyes at Seb. “Out with it. What did Lestrade say to you.”

“He…gave me a caution, actually.”

“Oh, he’s p –” Sherlock wasn’t sure how to finish. Seb still looked and sounded wrong. Was Lestrade Protective? Paternal? Pigheaded? Playing? “I expected as much.”

“No; a real caution. For cannabis possession. And he confiscated my stash. Said he was going easy and would arrest me next time. I wasn’t going to smoke it – it’s just my emergency don’t-leave-home-without-it supplies! And he said cannabis was illegal!” 

“I know what you mean.” Sherlock rubbed the face of his watch and thought about his just-in-case rainy-day one-never-knows gear stored under the back. He waved a hand. “It’s only class B. Wait. Caution? Not a warning?” 

“No. Because you see, I’d already got a few of those. Prior to the arrest. Yeah. I know. He said I had to tell you, or he would.”

“But…” Sherlock fought against the shock of Seb’s unexpected words. “He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Can’t. That information is non-disclosable to third parties. He played you, Sebastian.” Sherlock sat back and didn’t take Seb’s hand, the fingers of which were drumming on Seb’s thigh.

“He said I had to tell you. And I do have to. I…was a mess. It’s why I dropped out of uni and repeated the first year. I went…a bit, well, loopy, I suppose. I think you guessed.” 

Seb was staring at his hand, so Sherlock took it. That made Seb look up. “I suppose I thought it was drugs.” He shrugged. “I suppose you had your reasons.” 

“Does anyone? I don’t know. My grandmother died, then my grandfather. They left me the house. It was weird. I wanted to go away, and I couldn’t. So I did.”

“Slow down. Breathe. It’s okay.” Sherlock squeezed the hand he caressed. Never thought he’d be the voice of reason in any relationship...

“Well. Parents horrified, shocked, ashamed, scandalised. ‘Oh, gateway drug; leads to the hard stuff; makes you mix with the most awful trogs.’ ‘Oh, hippy drug; makes you eat junk; what about your teeth, and the smell!’ You name it, they said it.”

Despite the unfolding story, this made Sherlock smile. He’d only met the ’rentals a couple of times, briefly, but he saw the impersonations were spot-on, and he could easily see who’d said what. “And then what?”

“Oh, they put me in rehab. For weed! What a loser. And bloody awful food. And the décor! My word. Actually, it turned out to be good for contacts. But I didn’t want to be a banker.”

“But you do now?”

“Yeah. Course. I always did.”

How very Seb. Sherlock slotted his fingers between those of the hand he still held. “You still smoke. Did the rehab wear off?”

“Oh, now it’s just recreational. Not medicinal. Or escap-al.”

There was a silence. Things still felt heavy, and Sherlock wasn’t surprised when Seb said:

“I was doing a lot to chill and stuff to sharpen up. Towards the end with Alli. When things were bad. I guess she told him. She was really angry at me. I think she still is.”

“Come here.” Sherlock twisted round to hug Seb, uncaring of the cab driver. He whispered in his ear, words he’d never said before, not to Sebastian or to anyone. Seb hugged him back, then released him. Which was considerate; he knew Sherlock wasn’t that keen on being held and cuddled and snuggled. But he hadn’t been minding it too much. “What can I do?”

“You can tell me the truth. I read somewhere the police can make people disappear.” 

“What, like magicians do? Maybe.”

“And they can kill you with a ballpoint pen. They have special training.”

“Not a fountain pen?”

“Not these days, I suppose. You have to keep up with trends, Belle.”

“Maybe superintendents do it with a fountain pen. Maybe they have special killer Montblancs for the force?”

Sherlock was happy to see Seb chortling.

“The worst is he’s right _and_ dishy,” Seb suddenly said.

“I _know_ , right! He made me stop doing drugs and smoking! He gave my first patch.” Sherlock pushed his sleeve back to reveal the adhesive to Seb. “I’ll see if they do cannabis ones for you.”

Silence fell, but it wasn’t dark this time. More companionable

“I’ve been thinking.” 

Sherlock took a breath. You never ever knew with Seb. It could be anything…

“About drugs. About all the work we’re doing to solve this case. You know, maybe there isn’t any difference between recreational and other uses of drugs? And maybe we’re too old for them, really?”

“Suppose. Drugs are best left to the young. We don’t want to be the oldest sniffers in town, do we?” Sherlock was thinking of his performance last night. 

“Umm.”

 

“So, lunch? Me meet your mates this time? Fair exchange, no cliché?” Sherlock stuck his head out of the window and spoke as Seb exited onto the street. 

“Not wearing those clothes, you’re not. People will –”

“Talk?”

“Pity me, more like. Being with a City licker.”

“Huh?”

“As in popping into a Corney and Barrow for not a square meal but some Square Mile schmoozing. Surprised you aren’t wearing red trousers.”

“Someone was. God!” Sherlock’s grin was as wide as Seb’s, and he pointed. “Talking of ‘I misread the dress code…”’

“Oh, I have suits at work. For when I pull an all-nighter. Or get a drink thrown over me. A banker’s life… You can’t imagine. But lunch? Really? It’s a client and bank bods.”

“I’ll be your posh totty plus one.” 

“You always have been, Belle. You know, people” – he indicated Bishopsgate as a whole – “don’t generally know I’m, differently inclined, shall we say.”

“Oh.” Not so strange. Sherlock knew anecdotes about the only openly gays in banking being the caterers at the annual gala parties and the only blacks those in the bands who played at said events. “Let’s not, then. Don’t jeopardise your career.”

“Nothing could.” And for a moment there Sherlock caught a flash of the Seb he’d re-met, that day here, when Sherlock had come with John. “I’ll be deputy chairman before my next birthday.”

“When is that, incidentally? I’ll need to know to get your Dishiest Deputy Chairman for Square Miles T-shirt made.” Sherlock ducked as Seb leant in the window to flick his ear. But Seb would make a great poster child for gays in the finance sector.

“I’ll text you about lunch? Warning you now, it’s probably sushi. Yes, that’s the face, the-confronted-by-sliced-raw-fish face.” He turned to go.

“Hey.” 

Seb span back at Sherlock’s call.

“There won’t be a birthday threesome, Sebastian. Or ever. You probably haven’t noticed, but I can sometimes be a little jealous and possessive. Especially when it comes to you.” Seemed to be a confessional sort of morning, even if admitting to things the other knew. 

“Me too. About you, I mean. God, we’re real tossers.” And right then and there, in front of his bank and wearing mad-looking ancient cargo pants and heavy-soled lace-up shoes, Seb ducked low to kiss him.

“Absolute wankers,” agreed Sherlock, a little short of breath when they’d finished.


	32. Chapter Thirty-two

**Chapter Thirty-two**

221B was nearer, the reason Sherlock chose it as the location for a quick rest. No other reason, although the sound of the vacuum cleaner as he passed Mrs Hudson’s made him scowl, realising today being Tuesday, that annoying Mags woman wouldn’t be working. He could have done with being at the house. Still. Here now. 

_Different. Something’s…_ He stood in the living room, head tilted, hand outstretched, taking the room’s pulse as he sometimes did during a cold reading of a crime scene. _Empty. Thinner. Sparser. Duller_. Well, no violin, of course. No skull, and his oldest reference book was also at Seb’s. No John. Oh. Of course. He really ought to…

Sherlock flipped his phone over in his hand a few times and had started to message when he realised John deserved better. Laptop it was then. 

_Dear John,  
To refer back to our recent phone conversation in which I –_

Huh. He hadn’t known he worked in an office.

_I really am sorry for the way I handled events at the docks. I should have given you all the information. Although having you search a different warehouse did mean you weren’t captured and didn’t get tied up to be left in an explosion like I was. I appreciate all the things you yelled at me in the ambulance and at the hospital, about how hard it was for you to have to witness that, and all the thoughts you entertained. I’m pleased that you’re not hating your enforced absence from London too much. In terms of the other matter you raised, pertaining to Sebastian Wilkes’s more-than-probable involvement in EVC’s use of the trading floor for his illegal pursuits, I put those concerns to Sebastian and he addressed them fully, to my satisfaction._

Sherlock paused here and walked around the living room a little. Not only a very bureaucratic office, but one which had somehow slipped back at least a half century in time. Strange.

_Let me explain Sebastian._

Wait. Could anyone explain Sebastian, any more than anyone could explain Sherlock? He’d edit this.

_As he said and I confirmed, we were at uni together. Same college. Same Division. Same Staircase, which is how we met. In the first term. In fact –_

Sherlock whirled, laptop still in hand, to scrabble under the hearth rug, prise up the loose floorboard, and tug free his cache of memories. 

_Here’s a photo of the Staircase taken in the Yard during a fire alarm right at the end of Michaelmas term._

He scanned and attached it, picking out faces he remembered.

_John, I don’t know if I’ll be sending you this e-mail. About eight years ago, Seb married the brown-haired woman in the party frock in the middle, the one being held by two firemen while a third snapped the photo. They’re divorced now. She’s not too awful, actually._

Sherlock suddenly laughed, realising only now that Allegra must have rung the bloody fire bell herself to get this famous picture of them all wearing an assortment of stupid clothes hastily thrown on before the early-morning dash into the snow the day after the big Christmas event. Her version of a dawn, post-Ball ‘survivors’ photograph. She’d pidged them all a copy, “One Down!” written on the back, the envelopes bearing everyone’s nickname too. Legs 11, hers, he recalled. Fitted, he supposed. Her room had been number 11.

Sherlock replaced his photo in its envelope on top of its matching photo in its envelope addressed to Sebastian “Posh” Wilkes. Seb had never got it. Sherlock didn’t know exactly why he’d stolen it from the W pigeon-hole in the Porter’s Lodge, something he regularly checked. Seb hadn’t been there to receive it: a photo snapped a few minutes after this one would have shown not Sherlock and Seb dressed oddly in bits of steampunk costume from the night before, matching but not looking at one another, what with Sherlock’s extreme diffidence following their first time together, his first time full stop, and his no-sleep-for-three-days bug-eyed twitching. No; it would have revealed Sherlock trying not be caught staring after Seb who’d been trying to conceal his surprise at the arrival of his godparents, whom he’d forgotten were coming to collect him and whom he’d politely ushered to his room.

_And I hadn’t even got that army greatcoat I’d got from the second-hand shop and wore everywhere. That was in your room. I thought I’d never see it or any of the stuff I’d left there again. After the night before._

Instead Sherlock had wrapped his haughtiest air of disdain around him and sat down under a tree – not their tree – despite the snow, to calm down. He’d stared open-mouthed when later a third party timidly knocked on Sherlock’s door with Sherlock’s possessions Seb had entrusted to him. He paused, realising at this point he wasn’t writing to John, probably never had been. 

_I thought that was it, a one-night-stand, that you’d used me, got what you wanted from me, but then you rang, completely out of the blue, saying you’d just learnt you’d got the place to yourself and had suddenly decided to host the most fin-de-siècle millennium party ever and I had to go and you’d be passing through the village to pick me up and I had to be there. And I was. I don’t know why, why I obeyed you, but I was there, waiting, and you came. In a convoy of Land and Range Rovers. Well, at least one of each. And I even took my turn at driving, although I only knew what I’d learnt from observing father and Mycroft, and your group of yahoos all whooping and drinking on the way to your cottage. Don’t think I did too badly._

He’d expected it to be awful, some oh-so-madcap country house party, and while there was a lot of Seb schmoozing and networking, getting to know Seb revealed his more subversive, wild streak, and some of the puzzles and games Seb arranged and the freedom of the place itself hadn’t been all awful.

_I didn’t know what to pack, and ignored Mycroft who was attempting to question me as I helped myself to his new toiletries and sponge bag. He threatened to get mother, father even. In the end I just took an old dinner jacket, a suit, reading material and the clothes I was wearing._

Oh, he’d grabbed a bottle for his hosts as he left the house, calling over his shoulder he’d be back in a few days, a bottle which had been swigged on the journey. Once there he’d worn Seb’s clothes, and Seb’s father’s, he remembered, smoothing down Seb’s shirt he wore now.

_This pic isn’t very good, but it shows it was a good job I’d packed black tie._

The river at the end of the paddock off the garden looked like a painted backdrop for the boats full of smartly dressed young men and women engaged in that leg of the two-day scavenger treasure hunt thing Seb had arranged and forced them all into to celebrate the start of the new century. Sherlock was amongst them in grandfather’s old dinner jacket which had been retailored for his Christmas present. It was before he’d got the message and secretly waded off.

_There was an island. Seb must have slipped off – he texted me with directions to it and I found it and he was hiding there and we had a glorious clandestine open-air fuck. The striated pebble in my cache is from there. There were flowers, but they didn’t last. Doesn’t matter. Yes, clandestine. But not like being a bit on the side, as they call it. How can I explain. Do you recall last week, when Mrs Turner and Mrs H were talking in the street and Mrs T said she could always tell when a woman was pregnant, even before she was showing or had told anyone, by her look of being lit from within by the pleasure of the secret she was guarding? Well it was a bit like that, and we both – for different reasons – thought it was funny to keep it hidden._

He was typing very quickly now, not reading or editing, almost free prose. Fluent. Effluent, one might say.

_When I didn’t know Seb that well, I did wonder if he were ashamed of me, but I understood it was more he wasn’t and isn’t into definitions, and doesn’t care that much for people’s opinion. If people knew or suspected, whatever. Nobody made a big deal out of it. He seemed to freeze things like that before they started. So we lived together in the third year when we lived out. We shared a house, I mean; we had our own rooms, but we had a relationship and I killed it._

Funny how much he wanted a cigarette at that point. Or something stronger. He even searched a little, rooting around in possible hiding places, but nothing.

_Killed it with my insecurities and possessiveness. I wanted Seb all to myself to display my brilliance for, not spread it thin and waste it for other people or see him shining and wanting me to sparkle for others. I suffocated him. Alli said. See? I told you she wasn’t too stupid._

_Now Seb sprang me from hospital accidentally and took me to stay at his house, also accidentally, and we’re living together again, also acci –_

From the dry world of bureaucracy to cheap romance. Amazing. 

_And this time I’m different. I won’t smother it. I have my own oxygen. And Seb isn’t that person anymore. Shining is effortless to him now, part of him. Maybe it always was and I didn’t know. You won’t understand a word of this, John. Good thing I’m not sending it to you._

Sherlock replaced the photos and in doing so came across something he’d forgotten – his animal adoption certificate. Seb had sponsored a tiger at London Zoo in Sherlock’s name as his Christmas present and called it Raj II. He’d had the certificate sent to Hall. Sherlock faced up now to who he was writing to.

_Maybe I’ll show you the cache someday._

Weary and dizzy with maybe not tiredness as much as ebbing adrenaline, and not looking over the patchwork, the testament he’d wrought, he typed in the address and pressed Send. He could always get to the study and delete it from the account before Seb saw it.


	33. Chapter Thirty-three

**Chapter Thirty-three**

“Sherbet, there’s no snow! Sherlock Holmes, wake up! Complete disaster – the snow’s all gone!”

“You do too much anyway.”

 

Across the miles, down the years, Sherlock was still proud of his off-the-cuff comeback, especially as he’d just been woken up prior to delivering it. He and Seb had shared a room: Seb had swept Sherlock through the house and dumped his suits and brown leather school satchel – not ironic or iconic, just practical – in Seb’s room. Everyone had had to double or triple up and no one had scorned or pitied Seb for sharing with the Freak – at least not in Sherlock’s hearing. Most people were a little too wary of incurring Sherlock’s pre-emptive or revenge strikes anyway. 

He recalled his surprise at Seb’s nightly viewing of the small portable TV in his room, and his love of the weather forecast. Sherlock had removed the pillow from over his head and tried to bat this roommate away with it. Seemed that morning was neither Seb arousing him with something new, usually something fairly wild while substances still banged around their systems, or some languid, slowly building mutual handjob, the rhythm gentle, not to worsen their hangovers. Sherlock had wanted to plot the peak-trough of the wave-pulse on a graph. But refrained.

Drink, drugs and sex – a holiday unlike any other. Sherlock had…bloomed, he supposed was the word. At odd times he chuckled: mother had often spoken of sending Sherlock away on a course or retreat to teach him how to interact with his peer group. She almost certainly hadn’t had this in mind, but maybe she, or father, or Mycroft or Sherlock himself ought to have thought of the loosening, lubricating use of excessive alcohol and substance intake. Mother certainly ought to be pleased with these short-term if not the long-term results. Sherlock knew he could date the changes in his behaviour at uni, his being less isolated, from that break.

But why did watching broadcast Teletext that morning upset Sebastian? Seb who was now on the phone, speaking slow, careful French as he asked for and received information that made him drink a shot straight from the bottle and light up a –

“Well, thank God I made a pal of Lou the concierge.” Seb passed the bottle over.

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock took it, just to be friendly.

“And by pal I mean paid off. Because the snow’s melted and my parents checked out first thing! Meaning they’ll finish their aborted hols here! I knew the snow was different this year, so I’ve played it crafty and…” The rest was lost as Seb went to rouse the household and chivvy everyone still there – a few had dropped off at the pace or been dragged away – to clean and tidy. Sherlock had been excused menial tasks and instead accompanied Seb on a frantic drive around the village, charming some neighbours, paying off others – contributions to local causes – to ensure a good report of their stay. He’d made his rounds at the start of the holiday too.

“Always top and tail.” And that word-to-the-wise tapping of his nose. Sherlock understood Seb maintained various networks. That wasn’t where Sherlock had got the – No. Surely not. Sherlock grinned now, recalling the others’ frenzied restocking of supplies, and everyone pretending they weren’t hungover and were on a reading week, as the Wilkes arrived. Sherlock had been the only one with books. He didn’t recollect how he’d got home, but had done so just in time to get his things together to go up to Oxford within days.

He’s spent so long indulging in memories of the past it was almost a surprise to meet the present-day Seb again, scant hours later at lunch. Yes; kneeling on stupid cushions at the latest trendy Japanese place. No one else had a date. Obviously. It hadn’t perhaps been the best idea he’d ever had. 

“No; not that sort of analyst. Not working my way up in merchant banking. No plans to become a fund manager or even an associate.” It was natural they’d try and place him. “Not the sort of scientist who can advise on derivative products, either, sorry. I’m not an ornament of the front office at all. I’m actually gearing up to start my doctorate. Bio-organic and biomolecular chemistry. We met at university.”

Seb, the other half of the we in question, nodded in agreement, although Sherlock hadn’t told him of his plans for his DPhil. He was bloody wearing concealer over the dark circles under his eyes, Sherlock noted. Honestly. Why hadn’t he thought of that. Despite Seb being head of the trading floor, he was a better advisor than his bank co-workers, or maybe just better with clients, as he reassured this one, involved in an M&A deal, Sherlock understood, by rattling off his knowledge and understanding of the man’s options and industry conditions. But Seb was a trader, hard-wired to sell stock, now specialising in Forex, and Sherlock shifted a little, getting unexpectedly turned on by the effortless understanding of markets, politics and macroeconomics Seb displayed, much more interesting that Mycroft’s, as he mapped out which were falling and which were strengthening currencies, and which national banks looked set to intervene and why. 

And so Seb’s hand, when it soon dropped to Sherlock’s very upper thigh, found him hard. It was natural for Seb to eat one-handed, Sherlock knew, part of his Americanism and not some affected trait as it was in others. It was just as easy for Sherlock to eat his soup with his left hand, so they could clasp hands under the table. 

“I have to head back. I’ll try and get home at a reasonable hour because I want to come with you on the –” Seb left a discreet pause just in case anyone was eavesdropping.

“I’m not allowed to go. Mustn’t compromise procedure, chain of evidence, and all that. Not even allowed into the blacked-out van to watch on TV.”

“Shame. And it’s one of the higher-rated shows so I hear. Charming venue for it too.”

“I might hang around the station.”

“You Metsexual, you.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, it’s what they call Metropolitan Police fans. Groupies.” Seb coughed the last word.

“And by they, you mean you. Hmm. If I’m allowed, they’ll insist I’m gone before the arresting officers return with their detainees. But I might go, just because there should be a videostream feed of the CCTV relayed there.”

“Real must-see TV. Don’t forget to provide the snacks if you want them to have you back again. Isn’t it on, I don’t know, CB radio or whatever the kids call it nowadays?”

“There’s always that.” Sherlock suddenly though how much nicer it would be to listen in via a purloined radio scanner; saved all that boring digital decryption and hacking into the police headquarters computer, from the comfort of his own living room or laboratory.

“So, later?”

“Yes.” They couldn’t kiss, or embrace, despite the fauxmance of the koi carp pond, but that was fine.

But Seb wasn’t back in time to listen in via scanner, to share in the usual over-too-soon burst of fierce anti-climactic activity after all the build-up. Wasn’t there for Sherlock to tell him some of the other, more explosive – literally – endings to other cases, when there had been a distinct lack of playing by the book and instead heart-pounding chases or heart-thudding escapes. Wasn’t there for Lestrade’s updates via sneakily left-on mobile phone that Rupert then Jamie had been not only caught in possession of enough heroin to prove dealing, but seen and filmed doing so and so were now arrested and clapped into the waiting police van. Missed the official tally later from the station of the twenty arrests, nine still detained in custody. And Sherlock didn’t even lament that he wasn’t there, in the middle of things at the station, because it was very much later and Seb...still wasn’t home.


	34. Chapter Thirty-four

**Chapter Thirty-four**

Sherlock was ashamed that his first thought when he became aware of the late hour was that Seb was paying him back for last night, especially when he phoned him and got an unobtainable signal. Then he, well, not _thought_ , exactly, but wondered or mused if Seb weren’t perhaps with someone else and not Patrick, not that that was the reason he called the bank; _that_ was to learn Seb had gone.

Not that anything could have happened, because Seb had a guard, didn’t he? Oh fuck it. He called Frik. Frik who was very surprised to hear from him, as his orders were unchanged, to protect his mark. As far as he knew Sebastian had no personal bodyguard; hadn’t since the shuffle at the bank which had occasioned him hiring them. He’d contracted them again recently, for Sherlock, and then for Alli. Oh. At least she was fine? Yes; Frik didn’t feel there was any danger from Rufus or Jamie, no link back to Alli. That was good, although something which might need watching...

Just then Sherlock’s phone beeped an incoming call. Local number – 

“Sherlock Holmes! Can you be an angel and get me? It’s chucking out time and –” Seb buzzed into a haze of static.

“Where are you?” Sherlock was shrugging into his coat, grabbing the car keys.

“The Prancing Pony. Come and –” It cut off. 

At the end of the road, Sherlock swore, wondering if he should have come armed. He tried to think logically. Seb hadn’t been drunk. Sherlock knew how Seb sounded at each stage and there’d been no extraloud volume of the sloshed, nor the hypercorrect and controlled modulation of the completely wankered trying to sound only sloshed. 

He pressed Redial and eventually a male voice answered, to confirm yes, he was the barman at the pub, yes, Sebastian was there and had used the phone, and yes, would be grateful if someone came and –

“Seb?” Sherlock inched along the narrow street to find the lone figure sitting on the wooden bench outside the white-painted pub. “Sebastian Wilkes!” he called. “I’ll slow down for you to jump in. I don’t know how to park.”

The figure looked up. “Just leave the car where it is. You’ll be okay to. It’s a pedestrianised street. The brake’s the middle pedal.” 

_Oh. Put like that…_ Sherlock got out, leaving the doors open and engine running. Only the last stragglers were about. It must be late. He pointed up. “I thought we agreed never to sit under hanging baskets?” He studied Seb as Seb smiled. (Alone, homemade RESERVED signs ensuring him solitude even at the coveted – not so much in the chill – outdoor table. Had drinks passed to him through the window. Not that many. Dressed for the office. Yet…scuffed up.)

“What’s happened?” Sherlock abandoned guessing. Seb’s voice had been blank and bland. A white square. Seb stood, and Sherlock stepped close to him. He sniffed him. Just a little.

“Don’t get mad. Promise?” Now he sounded slightly American. (Nervous. Upset.) Sherlock shrugged.

“I didn’t realise it was… Oh fuck. Deduce for yourself.” And he uncurled the fingers of one hand, revealing a…tooth. 

“What? I…” Sherlock looked, really looked, and saw messy hair (running fingers through fringe but not because of stress; if so, he’d have shredded the beer mats), ripped jacket (oh, fighting; Seb had landed blows), a scraped and reddened hand (see previous), slight black-stained trousers (oil; garage), scuffed shoes (see previous plus Bishopsgate streets). He looked and he saw it all: the garage, the attempt, the struggle, the victory… “Seb, why were you in the bank’s private underground garage? You didn’t take your car to work.”

“I was tired and forgot, okay? So I was a little slow. But even so, I’ve never taken kindly to being told what to do, so when a huge black car pulled up into the space mine should have been in and a bloke got out and told me to get in, calling me by name, I –”

“Headbutted him. Hard enough to knock him out.” Sherlock blew the strands of fringe up to examine the mark they concealed.

“Well, yeah. And when the driver started to get out to intervene, I… No? No; nothing to do with my trousers, perv; get up. I kicked the door shut on him. On his head, to be precise. And then the third –” He stopped as Sherlock made a grab for his hand to examine the tooth it still held.

“You didn’t realise it was…” Sherlock swallowed. “Because he’s lost weight since you last saw him. And his hair’s different, isn’t it. And if he laid a finger on you, he’s a dead man. Literally. And you won’t be implicated in any way, don’t worry about that.” He stared hard at Seb.

“Oh, he didn’t. I went instinctive, realistic and practical. And down and dirty: punch, elbow, knee, kick. Hence the tooth. And the takedown. The, erm, body laid out on the concrete floor.”

“Three bodies.” Sherlock felt the icy fog clear. He began to giggle. “And not just a tooth: that’s the root-canal tooth!”

They clung together as they snickered, and Seb tried to explain he’d thought Sherlock would be horrified and sickened at his behaviour, furious with him…

“Impressed, is what I am!” Sherlock used the end of Seb’s tie to wipe both their eyes. 

“Benjamin will be. If only I can get the CCTV footage to show him. He’d give me the yellow belt in a New York minute.”

“What?”

“He’s our Krav Maga trainer. What? Mate! It’s only the best self-defence and fighting training, the hand-to-hand combat system of the Israeli Defence Forces!”

Sherlock had to lean against the still-running car to laugh and so missed most of Seb’s proselytising about it being reality-based, simulating the shock and stress of sudden violent encounters, designed to win on the streets. “No rituals. No rules. Well, one. Win, you bastard. As we Intermediate street-fighter bods say, ‘Get in shape, go home safe.”’ Seb nodded.

“Sounds like you’re preparing for a date. Christ, Seb! You left three unconscious bodies in your wake – one of them my brother! Do you know how much I want to fuck you right now?”

“I’ll pass your words on to Benjamin. He might let me start training with the kettle bell.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“No idea. Just know I want it. Let me drive. Please. You ruin clutches. Even if you don’t know which the clutch is.”

“Why” – Sherlock was still wheezing after these new gales of laughter – “the pub?”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure what to do after, looking at the bodies. No classes on that. So I sneaked into Pete, the attendant’s, booth – he’s never there – to call the cops. Disguised my voice. As Pete, actually. Then I walked back upstairs and walked out as if I’d just then left the office. Got on the first bus I saw: think it was going east, imagine! Then I realised who the tall bloke had been. Belatedly, you see. So I thought you’d be megapissed off. Not so much at me beating him to a pulp as me not deducing information from the car tyres, or his shoelaces or something. So I thought, pub until I calmed down and you were free. You probably wouldn’t cause a scene in public. House.”

Sherlock eyed him. 

“Well, not in my local. You know how much I like it. So then I called you.”

“And your phone?”

Seb wriggled it free. It was broken. (Calling someone when the incident started; phone fell and smashed on the concrete floor.) “I just need the chip. We have extras at work. It’s where yours came from.”

Sherlock determined then and there to steal Mycroft’s for Seb. He opened the hand he had clenched tight around the tooth.

“We’re having this framed,” he said. 

“What about bronzed? My mother had my first tooth bronzed.”

“And did she knock it out for you?”

“Dick. We could get it made into some trendy modern art affair, keep it in the living room.”

“Be a conversation piece. He owes you a new suit too. I’ll see you get it.”

“Ooh, I have been perusing the new season’s fashions…”

 

Sherlock buzzed, literally buzzed with joy the rest of the short ride home. He felt charged through, zinging and incandescent. He led Seb by the hand to the kitchen. “Only one way to celebrate,” he announced.

“Romantic dinner at the Oxo Tower restaurant? No. I’m guessing not flying to NY for lunch at Masa either.” Seb was smiling now, his eyes spilling over with relief and fun.

“Two words. Easter break.” Sherlock waited for the memory to have its way with Seb. “Three more. All-night fuck.”

“Erm, I thought we’d sworn off the dirty drugs. I wouldn’t even know where to get any E these days. Or even if there is any E these days.”

“No worries. I can whip up a little something.” Sherlock tied on Seb’s American _Weiner Roast_ apron. Seb had defaced it with black pen at some point. The Anglicised _Sausage Fest_ explanation improved it, in Sherlock’s opinion.

“Yeah. Sorry to be so square and all, but setting up a meth lab here, in NW3? It’s not really the done thing.” He was silenced by Sherlock’s usual method for dealing with his scruples – a tongue down the throat as he kissed the face off him. 

“Nothing illegal involved. One can practically duplicate the empathogen and entactogen effects of methylenedioxymethamphetamine with stuff lying about the house. For example Taittinger” – he took up two bottles of champagne – “and Valium.” He nodded to the small pill bottle in his lab. “A bottle each of the former and 10mg apiece of the latter. Then I’ll screw the arse off you all night and we won’t come until the morning. Trust me; I’m a chemist.” He wrapped his arms around Seb, crisscrossing the heavy bottles behind his back as he pressed his already aroused cock into him and leant forward to rub their faces together. 

“You sweet talker. Good job the lab is well stocked with my supplies. And just so’s you know, these are medically prescribed.” 

Seb shook two tablets free of the small plastic container as Sherlock popped the bottles’ corks and handed one bottle over. He stuck his tongue tip into Seb’s palm and licked up the small tablets. His raised eyebrow had Seb opening his mouth obediently for Sherlock to sick his tongue in and transfer one tab inside as they kissed. It was a rather immature race to swig their drinks back which followed. Sherlock wondered if Seb had noticed him pocketing the corks.


	35. Chapter Thirty-five

**Chapter Thirty-five**

The substances couldn’t have taken effect that quickly, but Sherlock wanted them to work and hadn’t eaten all day except for a bowl of soup. Right on finishing the bottle he felt time obediently starting an approximation of that stick-in-treacle and suck-free he remembered. It made him grin. 

“The raid! Alli!” Seb caught at his arm. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask. Was everything okay?”

“ _Fuck_ , Sebastian. You grew up really boring. Yes, fine. All present and correct.” He caught Seb and pulled him in for a clinch, cataloguing how similar they tasted, and the different flavours and scents of Seb’s uniqueness. Seb fell back a little under the pressure and sighed into him, under his mouth, letting Sherlock glide his tongue in to force Seb to breathe in tandem with him. Sherlock transferred his empty bottle from the hand wrapped around Seb and now tucked into his back pocket to his free hand, and placed it blindly on the table. He nipped a little at Seb’s lips, admiring the more puffed-up look and feel of them after his efforts. He also liked the way Seb winced a little as he drank the rest of his wine.

“Sherlock.” Seb finished and placed his bottle next to Sherlock’s. “I know what you’re thinking. About bending me over the Aga and creating a memory here. Aren’t you?” Sherlock could tell Seb was coming up to a buzz too. His eyes were soft and warm. “But, think of the cats. The trauma. The vet therapist bills.”

“Did I say boring? I meant crashingly boring. Dull.”

But he revised his opinion at Seb’s, “All the toys are upstairs anyway.” He also pocketed the bottle of tablets and they took another bottle of champagne each as they raced up the stairs. Time did a cut-and-jump then, and snapped to with them sprawling on the bed, pawing through Seb’s sex drawer like they were in a curiosity shop, then slowed as they kissed and challenged and decided. 

“Oh. If only we had your mix CD.”

“Mate, way you talk, 'Do the Dinosaur' should be on yours.” Seb slid over to the speakers and fiddled with his iPod, nodding in satisfaction when loops of mechanised beats and swirls of ethereal vocals filled the room. 

“You have an E playlist? You have an E playlist. Why am I ever surprised by anything you do ever, Sebastian Wilkes?” Sherlock started to strip him.

“Folks might say the same about you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Things froze while Sherlock made out the next song. 'Praise You.' Perfect. 

“I got a little man in. There are services that hook one up with moodlists,” Seb made the confession sound dire as he lay across the bed for Sherlock to ravish him. He ouched satisfactorily as Sherlock, now equally nude, bit his way down him. Seb would look good in a cock ring, Sherlock decided, telling him so, and that he wasn’t to come for ages, until Sherlock did. Not that there was much danger of premature ejaculation, with the diazepam. 

“Here. Pack of three.” Seb slapped a plastic packet into Sherlock’s hand.

“We’re not using cond – A pack of _three cock rings_? Why would anyone want –” He broke down into giggles, the sound reminding him of John, not that John ever sniggered until his nose ran. A sharper squint-eyed glance inside the toy drawer told him Seb had restocked recently and probably got a hefty discount as they were all from one store.

He saw the exact moment Seb felt the full effects of the drink and tranqs. He swivelled to sit up and pointed at the swinging-sixties-looking lady on the wrapper holding out the product to demonstrate it in approved proud housewife-style. “When the mood is right but the Cock Ring is wrong, get the right size that holds on to your dong,” Seb intoned in a sing-song American voice, and they lay heaving with laughter.

“Wait, look, ‘the three rings mean the wearer can mix and match depending on his mood, or combine two or three for greater sensation!’ It’s all clear now,” replied Sherlock. In a moment he found he was taking photos of a beringed Seb, although Sherlock wasn’t aware of having opened the fiddly packet or forcing a black rubber circle around the root of Seb’s cock. 

“Don’t come for ages, until I do,” he said right into Seb’s ear, waiting for and waiting out the song’s long lolloping passages of overdub effects. Seb nodded and held up the anal toy they’d chosen.

“This is brand new. Luckily. Thought you might be a little leery of second-hand toys.”

That struck them as so ridiculous they had to stop for hours to laugh before Seb could continue because he wanted Sherlock to be as filled he was. 

“Wait. Why is it pink? And all sort of round and bumpy, with a ring on the end? Jesus. Is it a child’s dummy?” Sherlock was laughing again. Or more.

“It’s an orgasm pacifier minivibe, Sherlock.” Seb was holding the packet to his eye to read it. “It was a freebie, okay? They gave me it free in the shop a few days ago when I stocked up. Said my wife would like it. What? I don’t go telling all and sundry I’m divorced.”

“You’re giving me a girl’s…” And of course he couldn’t go on, not once Seb started reading the packaging, in a ridiculous accent: ‘“Made from the best possible rubber made in the USA. This American-made rubber is 100 percent phthalates and latex-free, environmentally safe and hypoallergenic.’ See? Nothing but the best.”

It would have been more logical to lie up and down the bed instead of across, especially with lying head to toe for the mutual foreplay which took hours on end, and which Sherlock stopped his part of halfway through because it was so delicious. Seb’s mouth, soft and sharp on his cock, his balls, his arse, Seb tonguing and sucking and God, biting there, tiny needles and nibbles and Seb moving back up to start from the top and his chant, his litany of _those slanted eyes, those almond eyes, cat eyes, Siamese cat eyes, alien eyes_. So Sherlock landed him flat to try a list of his own, but all that would come free were _root, body, glans, fascia_ as he sucked, testing the taste of the toy as he did so and _urethral, seminal, prostatic_ as he twisted his fingers inside, wondering if it was in time to the music. Because time was so uneven now. Lumping and sticking, then sliding free. 

Seb was sloping around to land at Sherlock’s middle, nipping and sucking hard enough to mark.

“Yes, said you’d rim me,” Sherlock recalled, floating on a sigh, giving himself over to Seb.

“I am, Sherbet. Licking you loose enough.” 

Oh, of course. Licking and stretching and shaping him for the plug thing. Which Seb was licking, his eyes on Sherlock. Happily otter-squirming and dolphin-rolling Sherlock, not one huge-raw-nerve-ending Sherlock. With the rhythm pulsing in his cock, right down to the root. In his balls, inside even, which was now clenching and sucking around the bulge and bulbs of the huge plastic intrusion slowly and meaningfully stuffing him full. Comfortably full, elegant sufficiency, the lines and curves tucking up into his whorls and ridges as if designed for him. 

Time twisted a little along a tangled ribbon and –

“Happy Mondays?”

“Old school. Don’t stop.”

But they did, for more champagne, and settled again and –

“I told you it’s not me who likes this.”

“It’s not this. Shush.”

Because it was so slow, the gentlest, sweetest slide into Seb, on their sides, each movement, each shove eliciting a response from the anal plug and making him tighten his hold on Seb’s cock. Seb, who couldn’t come. Any more than Sherlock could, despite the stream he babbled of _love fucking you love you fucking me whenever I’ve been with anyone else I had to pretend it was you or I couldn’t come don’t want to now this is too good_

And the _you’ve always been such a perfect slut for me. So cold for everyone else, but my secret slut_ “God Sherlock, how do you think that’s made me feel, since that first time? That it’s me you get hard for? Want to fuck you? Want me, no needed me, right from that first second to hold you down and stuff you full, make you see, make you know –” 

“I struggled against it. Against you.”

“At first, yes. Only natural. But I loved pinning you down. So skinny and weedy against me. No chance.”

“Didn’t want one.”

“I know. Knew.”

They stopped, paused, to ride the sheer sensation, the unholy connection, feeling the elasticity of their joining and the constriction of the cock ring and the anal plug. Impossible of course, or maybe he’d tightened up or it had shifted to rub against his prostate, but Sherlock was more aware of it, felt it hard and certain in his passage, and Seb’s “ohhhh,” was his reaction to Sherlock tangling their long legs together and adding his fingers to his cock in Seb’s arse so Seb could feel the pressure and pulsing along with him.

“Should’ve put a bigger size in you.”

In reply Sherlock pulled out, nearly all the way, to push and wiggle against the zone just inside that must be screaming with sensitivity now, having been worked and stimulated so. Seb’s long, unbroken cry at this was something he wished he had on tape, as Seb as often wished he’d captured his first taking of Sherlock for later viewing pleasure.


	36. Chapter Thirty-six

**Chapter Thirty-six**

****

Time slowed to a stop for more lube and to finish the bottle and time paused for Seb to insert a different, bigger toy, curve, crooked, black latex nubs and suction cup base, the event standing out sharp against the whirl-blur of the stream. The corridor? The need for the lowboy. But back to the warm, wrinkled nest of sheets and bed, switching sides, Sherlock now window side.

“Belle. Sherbet. Sherlock Holmes.” Seb rubbed against him, making Sherlock wrap around him, wriggling against him. Not that Sherlock needed the help. With the bursts of pressure on his prostate and the buzz, he’d been so nicely hard for ever.

“I love my cock up your arse, you really tight around me like a schoolboy, I really do, but this is something else. I’ll gladly fuck you over my desk or in my chair or whatever you want next time, but could we do this for ages more? My treat? I want to go to sleep with you inside me, and wake up and feel you harden. I just do. I really do.” Seb was still explaining, or begging, when Sherlock slip-slid back inside his warmth and welcome, both of them moaning, Sherlock as he flexed around the odd twists and angles of the anal probe. At one point he thought it was a vibe, but thought as well it was him thrumming to the stream of music and feeling. Didn’t care.

Things flattened a little, thinned, and, prepared, Sherlock refuelled. He pulled out of Seb, ignoring the squawks of protest, and slid in a finger, beckoning it to hit Seb’s prostate as he inserted.

“Sherlock?” Seb twisted his head over his shoulder. His eyes opened wide and the pupils dilated as he gasped. “What did you…”

“Just a half.” Sherlock stuck out his tongue and showed Seb the other half, 5mg’s worth, slightly dissolving on his tongue before he swallowed it. He patted Seb’s rump. “Cheeky half, might say.” Laughing too much to penetrate again, despite his partner’s whinging and wailing he needed fucking. And with a hop, skip and a jump, a rush and a push, he was. They were.

“Ready?” It was after dawn. He was sore, his muscles sticking and locking, his groin strained, his movements slowed. If Seb was dozing, the removal of the cock ring woke him, and after all the leaking and pre-ejaculate, he hadn’t much come left, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about control and Sherlock couldn’t much either. The twin murmurs turning into sharp, then hoarser cries and shouts, the last frenzied thrusts and bitten-off filth, love and entreaties, longings, orders, even, then the completeness and perfection of the arrival, journey’s end. Last twitches, gasps, whispers.

Sherlock raised his head to see Seb fall out of bed and crawl along the carpet. “Where…”

“Change playlist. Comedown mix. Ipod’s in dock. Huh. Docking. No; too exhausted to joke.”

Seb scooped out cans of soft drink from under his bed and they knocked them back, Seb kneeling on the floor and Sherlock propped up on an elbow. Seb climbed in and Sherlock held out his arms for him to flop on top of him. He’d felt the pause, Seb knowing Sherlock wasn’t into… But Sherlock didn’t mind this embrace.

“Thanks. Was so am-fucking-mazing wanna lie like that in a minute again, sleep with you inside me. Told you. And to wake up and then you…”

Sherlock bent low to catch the slurred words.

“I told you. There’s no one like you for me. This isn’t just the fuck talking. I do…”

Sherlock knew the reason for the self-censorship. Not because Sebastian was afraid to say the words, but because he though Sherlock would stop his mouth for him before he uttered them, would accuse him of being maudlin, pissed, stoned, whatever. He kept quiet, kept holding Seb.

“Love you.” Seb almost couldn’t look at him as he said the words.

“I…know. I do. Really I do.”

They were silent, letting the mellow trance ambience swirl, not trying to find meaning in the lyrics. At least Sherlock wasn’t.

“Fuck. Have to confess.” Seb lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder. “ _Hate_ running. Really really do. I do it ’cause of my age and cardio thing, but I bounce and chafe and I get a rash and I hate it. There. Said it. What? You think I was going t’confess I’d been in love with you since first minute I saw you?”

“ _The Loneliness of a Middle Distance Runner._ Maybe.” Sherlock shifted Seb slightly, only now realising how sweaty and fucked-out the pair of them were. He had no idea of the time, unusual for him.

“Can remember it. First time I saw you.” Seb was at his side, lying on his front while Sherlock was on his back, both of them holding the other in their arms.

“In your room?” _Honestly._ They’d seen each other before that evening.

“No. When you rocked up. Freshers. Arrivals.”

“Sure?” Belatedly he realised he’d pulled Seb in tighter. Seb cradled his face with the hand looped over him.

“Oh yeah. I was looking out of my window while being harangued – ’rentals and moral tutor and probably the prince, all giving it fearful to second-chance Charlie drinking in the last-chance saloon. And there you were. Like a mirage. Down in the Yard. First I thought it was your mother and father, then I realised he was too young. They were chattering away, talking to people, or finding people to talk to.”

Sherlock was still not quite –

“Your brother had your violin case and music case and your mother your sword thing and mask. Practically had a Pony Club sticker. Except you wouldn’t have got anything for best Turned Out. Skinny sod, dressed in cast-offs, slouching, scowling and kicking at a squashy bag thing which you punted over to the Staircase and they didn’t see you’d gone.” Seb grinned, tongue poking in his cheek. “You didn’t see me letching at your tight jeans.”

“Of course I did. I’m just too clever to be caught gawking. You were wearing a blue shirt. Light blue. Other place blue. Said it all.”

Seb only had to angle his face slightly for a kiss. “When I tried speaking to you, and you brushed me off, were you pretending to be French?”

“That was a phase. Can we not talk about it. _God_ , Seb. You really have, since the first moment, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I know you didn’t. Haven’t. That’s okay.”

“Not then, no.”

And that this verbal shorthand, this telegraphese was mutually comprehensible was perfect.

“Hell. Really big meeting in a few hours.” Seemed Seb was coming down. “Oh my God! Alli’s having a thing with your inspector, isn’t she!” And getting poked with druggie insights.

“Yes.”

“Lucky cow.”

“I know! But he’s lucky. She’s okay too.” And there was him with drugged-up honesty.

“I know! Lord, d’you think she’ll be able to squash my caution?”

“Quash.”

“No, Belle; you don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Knob.”

“That too.”

“Oh, fuck!”

“Belle, really…”

“No. I’ve just figured how Mycroft – why he targeted you. Fuck.” Sherlock was furious with himself at his stupidity in writing Mycroft’s name in an e-mail.

“Did I mention hugely important meeting? Come here.”

And their wriggle and shove was to resume their position, because Seb wanted to sleep with Sherlock inside him, but they couldn’t: Sherlock couldn’t get hard. And in the morning he was embarrassed about that, but nothing else. He woke up to Seb staring down at him and his first thought and the first words out of his mouth were, “ _I’m Waking Up To Us._ ”


	37. Chapter Thirty-seven

**Chapter Thirty-seven**

“Good. That’s…good.”

Seb was there, over him, but holding off. And he was as tall as Sherlock, as solid as Sherlock, as real as Sherlock and neither of them orbited the other. But Seb wasn’t hesitating because of that. He knew he could breach the physical distance, had done from the first, forcing Sherlock out of his comfort zone, redefining that into a play zone for him. No; Seb was still making allowances for Sherlock’s emotional diffidence, his skittishness when it came to affection, to trust… His stupidity. Would a taking, a forcing work here too? No. It hadn’t before. But that hadn’t been Seb. This was, and so was his patience. And his probable fear of having morning mouth. Well, so did Sherlock. Didn’t stop him inclining his head to signal Seb down into a kiss. Sloppy and dry spit and stubble and huge smiles.

“Wow.” Seb parked himself close again. “I feel lo –”

“Love?” Sherlock got a finger in the ribs for his pathetic joke.

“Low in energy.” Seb stretched out for a sports drink. He held it out to Sherlock first, and when he drank after, his mouth in the same spot, time was still slipping and sliding, because this was ten years ago. Sherlock just looked. Stared, really. So much to talk about while nothing needed to be said. Perfect.

“Call in sick for me. Or go to the meeting as me. Or shoot me. You know how to get into the safe. Please.” Seb flopped to his back.

“Oh, I know something that’ll put a rocket under you. Hear the distant whine of a vacuum cleaner? It’s getting closer. I think it’s headed our way. I also think we left a very incriminating toy not to mention lube out in the corridor and you –” He sniggered as Seb fell to the floor, twisted in the sheet and a short wrestling match ensued for it before Seb gave up and crawled for a towel instead. Sherlock was still snickering when Seb came back in, still crawling, complaining his legs weren’t working.

“Should be. I only fucked the arse off you.”

“You fucked me ragged.” 

Sherlock loved the sound of those words coming from Sebastian, his cut-glass drawl wrapping around the filth. 

“I need music to get me in the mood for work.” Seb clicked on his iPod, and Sherlock, when he recognised the huge, driving, descending introductory chord pattern bursting like an explosion, smiled.

“Mate, I don’t think 'In the City' was actually about working in the Square Mile.”

“Maybe not. But if Cameron can claim 'Eton Rifles' as one of his favourite songs because it reminds him of his time in the Cadet Corps, I can…” But he was laughing too much to speak, and his answering fit of laughter left Sherlock weak.

“It’s not fair. That you get to stay in bed and that your hangovers only kick in later when you’re strong enough to deal with them.”

It was true, or at least it used to be. He hadn’t indulged in an age. “Who are you texting? Oh, I didn’t mean to pry. Don’t tell me.”

“Mags. The music alone isn’t amping me up enough.”

“She’s downstairs.”

“Umm. I need a thermos of coffee before I can get downstairs.”

“She won’t…” 

But she did, thumping on the door in a few minutes and Sherlock took it in to Seb in the shower, where they shared both things, Sherlock having a long day ahead too.

“I could get used to this. I want to.” Seb looked deep into his eyes to make him see, make him understand.

“What, you need a back scrubber? No –” he tugged at Seb’s arm. “I know. I…like it too. Do mine now?” He dodged to avoid the squirt of shower gel aimed his way. It was two clean and scrubbed but still fucked-out men in similar suits, one of whom had picked out the other’s tie – Sherlock never wore one if he could help it – who sat obediently at the table and poked spoons in the homemade porridge and fruit and downed lots more coffee. Seb choked in amazement as Sherlock made polite conversation with Mags, promising to clean up the laundry room so she could use it. He even carried their dishes to the sink. Just in case. 

“Give you a lift?” Seb offered. “If I can sit? I’ll drive. Talk you through the controls on the way. You should put in for your test one of these days.”

“Not today. Or tomorrow.” Sherlock knew dehydration and tiredness would set in sooner or later, despite the painkillers and bottled water. He waved back at someone, not remembering his name, but recognising him from Seb’s meeting. God, so boring getting into the centre with the traffic and delays and –

“Oh.” Arriving at the station suddenly made Sherlock realise he was there to be in on the wrap-up, learn the final details.

“What, Belle?” Seb stroked a hand down his face.

“The case is over. Means I have to go.” He waited a second, but there was no sense of desinence, no echo of a door slamming shut on a time, a place. He put his hand over the one now stilled on his cheek and brought his face so close to Seb’s they could kiss without moving.

“Is it. Do you. That’s…” Seb swallowed and dropped his gaze. His nasolabial folds and the hollows of his cheeks looked more pronounced. “So this is what, good-bye?”

“I _say_ over…but there’s the statements to take.”

“When? Would that be?”

“Well, it’s now. Today. I have to go now.” Sherlock indicated the unlovely building in front of them. So strange – he could have stayed right where he was, all day.

“And after? Later, I mean?”

“Yes, collect me after? Later?” He stopped and scowled, wondering if Seb knew what he meant, because he didn’t. Or would not.

“Oh, of course…”

Sometimes words were pathetic and wrong, and kissing was much easier and felt right. Someone passed close by the car and this shook them from their trances.

I didn’t ask about this important meeting. Or much, if any of his work, thought Sherlock as the car pulled away. _I’d make a rotten boyfriend. It’s good this is over. Really. Sebastian deserves –_ What? Allegra? Someone like her? Someone to make a house beautiful with, to throw career-greasing parties and – _He’s tried that. Had that. Done there. Been there. And I wrecked that, probably, even though I wasn’t –_

“Sir?”

Sherlock whipped around to stare at the young constable. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade saw you out here and asked if you were coming in?”

“Is that actually what he said?” Sherlock watched the red stain the kid’s cheeks.

“In sum, yes, sir. I left out the word fucking. And get a move on.”

At least that made him smile during the gruelling hours that followed, the interviews, the repetitions, the careful rephrasings of narratives and rearranging of events and the consultations with lawyers and higher-ups to see exactly how much of Sherlock’s involvement could be divulged and how… Sherlock was almost screaming with boredom, with frustration, but he owed Lestrade, Lestrade who wasn’t happy with Sherlock’s former recompense, because he had to go to New York for some presentation or other within days, so this had to be better than good.

Sherlock looked up from his desk and saw a familiar face walking past the door and down the corridor. “Frik?” The man ignored his call, which meant he was working and Sherlock was being stupid and that he was with – “Alli. Thank God. I’m going mad here. Are you…bringing lunch?”

“Do you eat nowadays? And you’re working? Sorry. No one copied me in on that. Here.” She came in and rummaged in her oversized leather satchel bag. Matched her boots and belt, he noticed. (Bag and belt archive, spent a long time looking for boots to match.) He took the carton of drink with a thank-you.

“Lunch for Lestrade, I mean. Prawn salad, I expect. Homemade, with homemade mayo?”

“Shop bought. No time. I sort of wanted to see the place, I suppose. Any excuse to get away from things. The gallery’s closed today. Probably for a while.”

“Oh. What will you do?”

“I’m thinking about research. You inspired me! No, not study; Lucy – you remember her? – is at the National Portrait Gallery now and she needs a twentieth-century curator. Temporarily. It would be something while I…” She shrugged. She always been adaptable, he recalled. Anyone involved with Seb would have had to be. “What about you?”

“What?”

“Oh for God’s sake. You never used to play coy. You and Sebastian.”

“I don’t –”

“Or dumb. Don’t make me take that drink away.” When he didn’t reply, she sighed. “I know Lestrade's spoken to Sebastian. Is it my job to speak to you? I don't... Huh. Should’ve asked for crib notes.”

“Don’t bother. His housekeeper did that.”

“And yet you live. Warning shot? I can’t improve on that. Oh, come here.”

She didn’t need to learn hugging from Lestrade. Any excuse she’d be there, arms folding someone in, he remembered. His second time, only, though. It wasn’t so awful.

“You don’t need me to tell you how much he cares for you,” she whispered. “Do you need me to tell you how much you care for him? I don’t think you need telling. But maybe along with coy and dumb you’ve gone more cowardly with age.”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock pulled free, paced. 

“People don’t often get a second chance. There won’t be a third, I bet.”

“You’re being nice.” Yes, that was unfair.

“You’re lucky then. Just, if you still can’t go through with it, and you should know by now if you can’t; you’re not that stupid, sod off now, while it’s easier. Don’t hang around. That’s really awful, when you know how he feels. Has always felt. And not very kind. And I don’t think you’re trying to punish him for before?”

“For Christ’s sake! Of course not!”

“Everything all right?” Lestrade, probably waiting outside while his what, girlfriend? delivered her lecture. Pep talk. Whatever.

“Would be, if we could ever get this crap finished.” His gesture took in the room, the station. “How much longer?”

“Not much. Calm down, yeah? We all want to get home.”

But things dragged or were dragged, and when the final minute of time on the case was accounted for and signed off on and he was eventually released, he shot out like a cork from a bottle. To find Sebastian waiting for him as he’d promised, but leaning against his car, carefully dressed, freshly shaven, hair neat, holding a balloon bouquet and a wrapped, ribboned parcel, the most determined look in his eyes. Sherlock stopped dead, but he wasn’t coy or dumb or a coward, so made himself walk through the rows of cars to meet him, to face him.


	38. Chapter Thirty-eight

**Chapter Thirty-eight**

 “Sherlock Holmes. I’ve been waiting for you. Because it’s clichés on the table time. Cards on the cliché. Clichés on the cliché?” Seb wore his twisty half grin as he said the words, but then his lips parted slightly and his eyes looked, what, _frightened_? “I don’t want you to go. I think we have something.”

 No one could say Sebastian wasn’t to the point. Sherlock ranged his gaze from Seb’s pale face to the fine tremor in the hand which gripped the balloon strings. The stupid, stupid things were blue and silver, the same as the one Seb had given him before and which was still tied to his bed, well, the spare room bed, his bed was…and the message, the same on them all, had been magic markered to read _It’s STILL a boy_. Yet he couldn’t grin.

 “And this little token of my woo, in lieu of me getting down on one knee and having my tailor cut me. Literally. Demon with a knife. And passive-aggressive queen too. I’m sure you’ve noticed he makes my jackets slightly too small. Oh God, just take it. Please. It’s not…”

 Sherlock unwrapped the parcel and opened the box to find…a slide rule? He looked up, frowning.

 “I forgot what equipment you were bleating on about. Figured I couldn’t go wrong with a slide rule. You probably can’t have too many. For different occasions. One for best, what do I know. Stay.” Seb tried to sweep his fringe back, got his hand stuck, and lowered his hand.

 “Sebastian Wilkes.” Under other circumstances Sherlock might have smiled at the typically Seb gesture, not to mention the whipcrack change of subject, but there was nothing funny here. He glared at Sebastian for putting him on the spot like this. For making this _into_ a spot. There was no fucking need for this at all. Sherlock was torn between wanting to call Alli and shout at her for her hand in this and wanting to march back in and tell Lestrade what he thought of him for meddling in this. This, this case. _Ohh_ …

 “You know, things aren’t exactly over completely. This is just one part, really. I could stay until it’s processed through to court.” He made to take the bunch of balloons, but Sebastian didn’t release his grip. He looked hard at Sherlock, and Sherlock dropped his gaze. Because he was a coward.

 “Belle. Please don’t make me pay for hotshot lawyers for these crooks to keep the case stonewalled. Because –”

 “Because if I were to look at your Internet history, would I find you’d been looking up the criminal process, and –”

 “Barristers. No. yes. A bit.” Seb glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock guessed there were spectators gathering. He hoped there was no one he knew. They already had enough ammunition.

 “I don’t want you to go and us to just be boyfriends, dating, sleeping over, that sort of stuff. That would be a lie, because we’re not that. Not now. Not anymore. Probably not ever. See?”

 The _seeing_ was a kiss, sweet and soft and probably Seb’s alternative to getting down on bended knee. Sherlock felt Seb swaying into him a little and tasted champagne. Not that of last night and not recent-recent. It puzzled him. (Drink? For this? No: Seb wasn’t a coward and it would’ve been spirits.) He was pondering that, and the fact there was a driver in Seb’s car, and hadn’t realised he was kissing too hard, trying to seek answers, until Seb made some sort of noise and pulled back. Sherlock almost jumped when Seb spoke again.

 “Belle, we’re in a relationship, in case you hadn’t noticed. I, I think it’s the same as doctors being the worst patients: consulting detectives are the last to observe things about themselves.”

 “And merchant bankers…having interfering ex-wives and cats and…” He shut up. Hadn’t any idea of what he was trying to say. Nothing. Everything had compressed to them, here, now, two grown men, one of whom was offering the other his heart. _“If you can’t go through with it sod off now while it’s easier.”_ And now he was Lestrade, quoting that bloody woman all the time. And now he couldn’t get the sentence out of his head and it grew _sod off_ and beat _now_ at him, sucked at the little oxygen _it’s easier_ left in this bubble. He caught another breath of champagne as Seb sighed. “Please, Sherlock. You know how I feel. I don’t say it a lot as I know it freaks you out, but I’ll say it now. I have no problems admitting to it.”

 “No. Oh no, not _no_ like _that_ , like I can’t… Well, I can’t here. Now. I mean, I have to sod off. I have to go home and… I’m sorry. You deserve…”

  _Answers. Responses. Honesty._ Sebastian deserved them all. Sherlock shook his head and was still shaking it as he backed away. He turned and realised he’d left his present on top of the car – he must have put it down to pull Seb closer. Too bad. He sprinted, actually sprinted, adrenaline burning through him in his flight for the main road where someone pulled him back as he moved out to the middle of the road to stop a cab. He didn’t quite understand or take it in; he was still back there, cocooned between two cars as Seb’s greedy wants and needs pressed in on them, squashed them both flat. He couldn’t even see the streets as they drove; he could still taste Seb deep in his mouth and the questions beat at him so.

 Was Seb’s wish greedy? Strange; back then, it had been his burning desire and it had threatened to consume Seb, who’d fled from the heat and the dust. And now here he was demanding the same of Sherlock. But it wasn’t the same, was it. Because _they_ weren’t the same. What they wanted, needed, wasn’t. Seb loved him. He thought he loved Seb, if that’s what this feeling was and it probably was. Alli seemed to think so, and she’d presumably loved him once, or even still did, so knew what it looked like.

 Was that right, or stupid nonsense? Oh, _fuck_ Seb, for bringing this down on them. _Bastard_. But living with Seb, sharing a life with him – wait; he’d done that with John, hadn’t he? No; not the same. They hadn’t made a life _together_. But, neither could he and Seb, could they? Seb had his, and Sherlock would be sharing that. Seb holding all the clichés. _Oh, make that stupid, adolescent habit stop._ He knew Seb, knew how intractable he was: no chance of persuading him to just see each other, being friends with benefits, dating, whatever it was he’d said.

 So, the alternative, the sodding off? Oh, that was bleak – that, what, living at 221B, with John, or maybe someone else, and not having this? And it was a lie, like Seb said, because they did have this, they _were_ this –

“Sir? I said, we’re here.”

 The man was practically shouting, must have been for a minute, and Sherlock snapped to, and stared…at the wide street with a railed private garden running down the middle of it, setting off the double-fronted houses either side of it, and that one, with its gate and wide steps leading up the columns of the porch hugging the door, one of the few blue doors in the street, and the only door of that shade anywhere, probably, for all he knew.

 “No. This isn’t… Is it?”

 “This is the address you gave, sir. I can assure you. Is it not where you wanted to go?”

 And Sherlock stared, too stunned, too winded to laugh, because while he’d been coy and dumb and cowardly and fled with his mind, much-vaunted mind twisting and turning over the future and choices and compromise and give and loss and fear and needing home, his laser-sharp, cleverer-than-him mind had given Seb’s address. He of the perfect control, he who never made mistakes, had had himself brought here, to the house where Seb lived. _I Didn’t See It Coming._ Now he laughed, loud and cracked. _  
_

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

 “Yes to the first question, seemingly, and I have no idea how to answer the second. I mean, how does anyone know? Sorry. I’m not crazed. Well… But not now. There’s somewhere else I have to go. Turn the metre back on, if you please.” And a second later the cab was taking him away from the neat and tidy street where the police-box-blue door screamed out loud and proud, and where the future was as simple or as complex as he wanted it to be, if he only chose.


	39. Chapter Thirty-nine

**Chapter Thirty-nine**

It wasn’t much later but it was a fair bit darker, dusk having fallen suddenly while he was indoors, as often happened, the sky darkening from thick blanket blue to Japanese ink. Sherlock tiptoed, actually tiptoed, not knowing what or if there’d be anything to expect. He hesitated at the door, then didn’t feel that was right, somehow. He frowned in narrow-eyed concentration, shifting the package in his hands as he waited, testing the air. Then, decision made, he turned and marched around to the side, down the concrete steps to the garden. 

Here he stopped, not daring to breathe as he took in the bleakness of the scene, of Seb sitting alone at the patio table, not using his telescope, not smoking, not reading, not listening to music, not…anything. Just sitting, head in hands. Alone, haloed by the lamp on a stick, but shrouded in something Sherlock was almost figuring out when Seb slowly raised his head and looked beyond the circle of weak light to the corner where Sherlock was. He too said nothing.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.” Sherlock took a step and only then saw black and white shapes thicken in the darkness. How many cats… “I had to get supper.” He held up the white-wrapped package, warm and leaking grease and vinegar most satisfactorily. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

Seb coughed, forcing his voice to work normally. “Only if you make a decent cuppa this time. I don’t know what you do to it, but you make even my loose-leaf Darjeeling Okayti taste like builder’s brew.”

“That’s because I don’t use that half-arsed stuff in the canister which I presumed you only got in for when your mother comes. I use the bags in the cardboard box.”

“The stuff I got in for the builders who laid this patio. It all becomes clear now. Unlike your tea. Which I’m not making for you – I know it’s a stratagem!” Seb called after him as he disappeared into the kitchen. 

Sherlock wasn’t stupid: he knew that wasn’t the end of things. Maybe it was a kind of a beginning, though. He peeked through the window and saw Seb was sitting as still as before, poised, waiting, somehow. _Oh of course._ Still hungover, Seb was also slightly drunk. A rare ability. Fatal. Sherlock did so hope this wouldn’t be too awful, even if Seb did deserve his pound of flesh. 

The image made Sherlock’s incipient nausea and headache, the hangover adrenaline had kept at bay so far, loom like a fist. He’d eaten nothing all day and betted Seb hadn’t either. He opened the cupboard. Seb liked those swirly green plates

“Not the bloody Versace!” came from the garden. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took out the more utilitarian Cornishware, grabbing both yellow and blue striped plates and mugs. If Seb didn’t like his mix-and-match approach, too bad.

“You know there are no decent fish shops around here?” he said, coming out with the tray. 

“They call them chip shop hereabouts.”

“I had to go for miles to find a recommended one.”

“Recommended by whom?”

“The cabbie. They know everything. You have to be careful with cab drivers though. Good lord, what’s that? A…hedgehog?”

The tiny snuffling creature was just visible in a muted pool of light from a lamp fixed high on the wall in the small green enclosure.

“Oh, yes. Beamish brings him sometimes.” Seb poured tea, added milk, then tipped a little into a stone which had a dip in it, making a hollow. Sherlock watched the creature stretch and shape itself over the stone, its white belly and face and paws showing as it drank. It let Seb stroke its throat and turned to Sherlock, showing a long brown nose and tiny sharp brown eyes.

“What do you call him?”

“William.”

“Any reason?”

“It’s a good name.” 

“I suppose it is.” 

Sherlock didn’t think this was it, that he’d got home free. As soon as Seb settled back at the table, Sherlock hurried unto the breach with, “Look. Mushy peas in batter.”

“Heavens. Why? I read your e-mail.” 

Sherlock flinched at the whiplash impact of the change in subject. “Oh. I… I’ve never lived with anyone.” 

“That’s a goddamn lie. You’ve lived with me. You live with me now.”

The dark and the evening thickened around them following this pointed exchange, and not even a cat moved.

“I mean, you’re here with me now. Aren’t you? Sherlock.”

“I…want to be. I just don’t know if I can. Be with someone. I…” He noticed a big white form gleam up and fuzz to a stop as it joined the group. The Persian. “Not just because I’ll be so crap at it I’ll hurt you, but because I’m quite scared.” 

“Hmm.” Seb half rose so he could hook a foot around his chair and drag it closer to Sherlock. He fed him a chip and wiped away a spill of ketchup from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock found his breath catching at the way Seb sucked his thumb after to clean it. “Scared.” The dark was now more velvet, with Seb’s cologne and heat and nearness. And his hand using the pathetic wooden fork to feed them both.

“All the sacrifice, all the changes, losing things, I don’t know if I’m able to do it.” Sherlock looked away and was convinced he saw a reddish brown shape slink into the circle. The glassy light reflected from its eyes was more guarded than that of the cats.

“I’m not asking you to cut off a body part, or even pretend to be something you’re not. It’s you I want. You know that, and that I’ve never stopped loving you and never will. I don’t think.”

“What, me with my awful nocturnal habits, my _Sleep The Clock Round_ , here?” The flick of Sherlock’s hand tried to indicate the entire neighbour with its cute curtains and conifers and couples. 

“Here’s just a place. It’s not us. How about you wake me for a fuck when you eventually get to bed, then you force yourself to have breakfast with me before I have to leave? And what the hell is this?”

“Well, yes, I could. Potato fritter.”

“Did you get one of everything? Battered sausage for breakfast then.”

So of course they had to pause for a snigger, and for Sherlock to feed Seb some chips, apologising for stabbing his lip with the wooden prongs.

“Mate, fingers came before forks for a reason.” Seb dabbed at his mouth with a bit of the newspaper wrap, Sherlock having forgotten napkins.

“And that’s another thing. All the names.”

“Hmm?”

“ _Buddy. Pal. Sweets. Fellah._ Or anything you call people when you can’t remember their name.”

“I know I’ll never forget your name. So, _Belle_ isn’t –”

“That’s fine. _Sebastian_.” It always had been.

“And I call you _mate_ because you are. My mate. Oh, not in Britslang, not a friend, but the dictionary definition. One of a matched pair. It also means spouse.”

“Oh. Well, that’s… Oh, yes: I don’t want to be paraded around because of the novelty of me being your other half. Novelty soon wears off.” He pointed a pickled egg at his mate to show this was serious.

“Did you get any sachets of brown sauce? Novelty? I’ll never get used to being with you, take it for granted. As if.”

As if Sherlock could either, being with Seb. You never knew what was coming.

“And it’s up to you, but don’t you want to be involved in things as my partner? Like lunch the other day? I love it when you do, and I like being into your stuff.”

“Well, maybe.” Sherlock flicked over a fat sachet of sauce. And it had been nice to have Seb working with him recently. He’d been handy when needed, not scaring that easily, and good company on his rounds. His money didn’t hurt either. “Fine. But I have a lot of stuff going on. Not just my doctorate work, I mean.”

“Tell me about that one of these days? And how I can help?” Seb asked around a mouthful of starch. Seemed he was just catching up to his lack of eating that day.

“Yes. I’ve been meaning to. But I have to work on cases, see my network… I might not be in to dinner every night and I’ve usually got experiments on the go which can’t be disturbed and I can’t be dragged away just for schmoozing and…”

He broke off his hurried gasps of words and stared at the ring of animals. They were no help. Seb passed him a fried onion ring.

“Let me know what you’re up to and where you’ll be and I’ll do the same. I’ve got stuff on the go too. This…isn’t as easy for me as I’m making it seem, you know. I’m just really focussed on it. You. Can’t we make it a rule to lunch once a week at least?”

“Hmm. Suppose.” 

The evening loosened and breathed deeper, easier. Sherlock rubbed his knee against Seb’s, and it made Seb drop his tiny fork. Sherlock was convinced a puppy had joined the ranks of animals.

“Make some more tea? You need the practice. And bring some bread and butter?”

When Sherlock returned with it, he scowled, remembering his thoughts about being more involved with Seb’s life. “What…would you want?” He knew his tone and words were grudging.

“I don’t want you getting into hysterics about stuff. Yes, you do. If things are bothering you, ask me. Straight away. Or at least someone sensible. Alli, for instance. But me. Don’t go getting weird ideas about things.”

“That’s…okay.”

“And I want children. I didn’t before, but I do now.”

“What?” The garden rustled at the loud ring of his response. “Seb, mate, for one thing, we’re lacking the basic biological wherewithal for that.”

“Sherlock.” Seb scraped up the last of sharp bits of small fry. “There are ways and means these days. Just look at Elton and David. Neil Patrick and David. Different David. Obviously. Ricky and Carlos. Sarah Jessica and Matthew.” 

“Designer twins?” Sherlock gaped in amazement. 

“And I don’t want them packed off to prep school and boarding school. Unless they want to. But children, that’s non-negotiable.”

“That’s ridiculous.” His grin was the mirror image of his mate’s.

“Shake on it?” And Seb’s version, slightly less Masonic, was to pull him into a kiss, filthy with salt and vinegar and red sauce and brown sauce and butter and tea and milk and promise. Deep, strong, lasting. If Sherlock let it. And he wanted to and he wanted it so he kissed back, of course he did. How could he not? And when it was over and they just looked and Sherlock wiped Seb’s tear away with a greasy thumb that wasn’t steady at all, he gave a weak giggle. Because this was so just them, and the way they’d always been, despite whatever else had been. How could things not be, when they already were?

“I’m warning you now, I’ll most probably be really crap at this,” murmured Sherlock.

“Oh, I know I am. Divorced, remember?” Seb’s smile wasn’t the usual twist but a huge open beam, despite the suspicious looking shine in his eyes under the moon.

And the garden was filled with the rustling and meowing and yapping and yipping of all the creatures of NW3.


	40. Chapter Forty

**Chapter Forty**

“Strange.” Sherlock leaned back against Seb, watching him wince every time Sherlock dabbed his finger in the spots of vinegar to lick them up.

“Hmm?”

“This is traditionally the end of the story, but that’s wrong. If you think about it, it’s just the beginning, isn’t it?”

“’Course. What’s next? Telling the masses, I suppose. If that’s…”

“If we do it properly. In the right way. We’ll have to see John. He didn’t like you.”

“Oh.” Beamish jumped onto Seb’s lap and pushed Sherlock away to make room. “He’s still abroad?”

“Scotland, you bell end. We can fly there. What?” He shifted, expecting a mass animal invasion at Seb’s wounded look. “Are you banned, or something? Well, he’ll be back soon, I suppose. Won’t be there for ever.”

“No one would.” Seb shuddered.

“One day I will find out what happened. I suspect some sort of Inglorious Twelfth incident…” 

Seb remained mute. “Can’t wait to meet your folks,” Sherlock finished, on a malicious note.

“Lord. They’ll ask you about your prospects.”

“Oh, dismal at best.”

“And they’ll produce baby photos. Literally. Photos of babies. Cousins’, nieces’, neighbours’, random ones from magazines…”

“I’ll just say I lack the equipment. Even with a slide rule.”

“I’ll be meeting the Ideal Holmes.” Seb stuck his tongue in his cheek.

“Who are probably not too keen on you since you beat up their favourite son.”

Seb put his arm around Sherlock. “Well, I hate to say it, but they must be deluded. You’re the best. Much the best arse. And you can take a beating without whimpering. Probably. I look forward to finding out. If you see what I mean.” His voice was lascivious.

“Knob end. Oh, we’ll have to see Mrs Hudson. Take her out somewhere nice.” Sherlock suddenly became aware of the tension, slight but there, that hadn’t left Seb during the entire interlude. (The drink, the shirt which could go better with different trousers…) “What happened at the bank today? The meeting? You’ve been drinking lots of Piper Heisdick…”

“Yah. Nouves.” Seb shook his head. 

“What.” Sherlock straightened and put out a hand. Seb took it. 

“No; it’s fine. Good. Great, even. Performance review. After all my epic, epoch-making work. Literally. Tell you later. I negotiated my bonus. Look.” He undid his shirt one-handed, and Sherlock laughed in amazement at the figure written in thick black pen on Seb’s chest. “Was going to surprise you later. Then I forced all of this and didn’t know if there’d be a later. I’m a dolt.”

“No, you’re not. You’re really not. And we should throw a bash. To celebrate and tell everyone at once.” 

“Oh. If you think so.”

And as always with them, nothing needed spelling out, or even writing out in black pen, although Sherlock enjoyed tracing the numerals with a finger, making Seb shiver, more so when Sherlock promised to write them in something edible and…

“I’m sorry about my brother,” Sherlock whispered in Seb’s ear, laying a finger across Seb’s lips when he would have spoken, quipped, wisecracked. “He’s paranoid, and my message tipped him off.”

“Not following you, sorry.” Seb spoke around the finger, tonguing it and sucking, and it was Sherlock’s turn to shiver. 

“Well, you know in the world of what’s laughingly called intelligence, or more properly security, certain words are flagged up as filters and entire teams devoted to investigating them in e-mails, search engines, etc.?”

“I do now. And that’s…interesting. The use of such filters could mislead…people…into thinking…things. _Wrong_ things.” 

Sherlock, by now practically in Seb’s lap along with two cats, giggled and rested his head on Seb’s shoulder when this snicker became a chuckle.

“So. Village life it is then. And maybe we could have 221B as a pied-a-cliché?”

“Erm, actually, there might be a few changes. Here.” 

Sherlock backed off. He had no choice at the tension radiating from Seb.

“Oh? Let me guess. Mags has said that the idea of two bachelors gay, as it were, is too much.”

“What? No! She’s gay, anyway.”

“Oh. But she loves you!”

“The two states of being are not mutually exclusive. God, Bert, you’re naïve. Good I’m worldly. Polish you a bit, I can.”

“You can polish my bell end.”

Because they were both nineteen. Younger than they’d ever been. But Seb was faking it a little. 

“Tell me. Whatever it is. Pass me a cat to cushion the blow, as it were.”

“Don’t get the arse. Don’t get mad. It’s just, being village people, it’s all things twee and nice, but… And you know I’ve been in touch with Martha a bit recently. _Mrs Hudson_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had no idea what could be coming and didn’t want to look an idiot by guessing _new housekeeper_ when it might be…

“Here. Before you open it, please know it’s a bribe. I have no shame. A few scruples. No – not many.”

“A bribe?” Sherlock took the small thin envelope Seb pulled out of his jacket pocket, disturbing some brown animal or other on the other chair who had dragged the garment off the back to use as a cushion. 

“A present, then. A moving-in present. An engagement present?”

“A letter of intent?” Sherlock kept flicking his gaze from the page to Seb as he tried to take in details.

“Mrs H wants to move to the country, try to reconcile with her daughter, meet her granddaughter. Well, the latter, mainly. And I’ve been here, done this –” He indicated the garden, the house, the way of life. “This ’burban liberalism. Champagne socialism. Central London hipster living’s the way to go.” He sped up, gabbling. “We could do up the building – roof garden, basement lab, kitchen dining room, first-floor living area, bedrooms, have our own space, I need a dressing room…Marie might sell too .”

“Marie.” Sherlock was still perusing the terms of the intent.

“Mrs Turner. Next door.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, I think if Martha goes, she’ll follow her, if you get my meaning. We could knock through. We’d buy together.”

Sherlock ran a finger over the figures mentioned. 

“Your fund. I had a look at it for you – oh, figured out your password. Easy. You might want to think about tightening it up –” A badger scampered away as Seb dodged the blow aimed at him. “You have money available to you for investments the trustees consider acceptable. My father knows one of them. Said he’s into property.” The speed was Bullet train now. “Rent out next door. John might – Please don’t be mad.” All motion and sound ceased. Then, “I thought it might possibly be something to do together,” was breathed.

Sherlock let the pause hold. He folded the letter crisply and slotted it back in its envelope. Head on one side, lips pursed, he considered. 

“Hmm. True. Yes. It’s official – you’re a genius too.”

“Oh God. That’s… I… Oh, this calls for a celebration!”

“We said we’d throw a party.” Sherlock grinned and tried not to feel sick as Seb tugged him up and danced him round. 

“No; a proper celebration. In my office. I want to have sex in my new vibrating chair. That’s why I asked for it, special delivery and all. To celebrate. Not my bonus and promotion, either. I want you to –” The rest was whispered, hot, needy, greedy, right into Sherlock’s ear.

“Oh. That’s – What’s it worth?”

Seb clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I’ve got some pickled onion crisps in the top drawer of my desk.”

“Huh, call that slut bait? And for what you’re asking? Now, if only you had smoky bacon flavour…”

Seb grinned and looked sideways on at his mate. “Middle drawer.” Then when Sherlock didn’t react, was belatedly trying to process all the events, Seb implored him, “Mate, come on! That vibrating swivel chair won’t sex itself. I did say vibrating, didn’t I?”

“Race you.” Sherlock awoke, coiled, ready –

“How?”

“Any way you like.” – willing and able to snatch the car keys from Seb’s abandoned jacket. He twirled them in the air. “Winner calls tops?” he called over his shoulder as he fled up the steps, round the house and out the gate into the street.

“Sherlock Holmes! You get back here or I’ll…think of something!” And he felt Seb, heaving with laughter, trying not to heave, bound after him. 

And the midnight church bells rang out a joyous, lolloping peal as all the creatures of NW3, perhaps sensing their benefactor wouldn’t be there much longer and unsure whether to follow him and his mate to central London, leapt onto the patio table to tear into Sherlock’s leftovers in perfect amity.

 

(There's an epilogue)


	41. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented on this! T'm so happy that people apart from Archea2 and Lauramac_10, the poor dears who get lumbered with all the rambling (for which huge thanks as always), have said they enjoyed it!
> 
> g

**Epilogue**

It was later, much later, or really early. Sherlock sighed and shifted his weight a little, mindful he was crushing Sebastian. They’d both come but Seb still pushing up into him lazily, hardly having to move courtesy of the amazing vibrating chair. The exact same model as in the barber’s, Sherlock had noted, now on its lowest, most languid setting.

“Ohhhh.” Seb stretched a little, reacting to Sherlock’s change in position. He slipped fully out, and Sherlock felt the loss. “Good. God.” Sherlock idly wondered if his partner would ever be capable of normal speech at normal speed again. He bit him on the shoulder, just to see. They were both mostly naked, with Seb’s shirt under them to protect the heavenly chair. “God. Good. Really good. And God.”

Had he ever seen Seb more languorous-eyed?

“Love coming inside you. It’s better than anything. I wish I were brave enough to ask you to wear a butt plug after, one morning. The thought of me going about my day and you yours with my spunk still in you, God, that’s…”

Sherlock reflected his mate had just asked him. 

“Love this coat.” Seb gave it a twitch. “When you walked in here that day wearing this, I, well. It’s not decent.”

“I think you can tell me.” Sherlock added another bite as incentive.

“Wanted to yank your scarf – my bloody scarf – off you and gag you with it, then fuck you in that coat.” His chest was smeared with black where the numbers written on him had smudged; his eyes were half-hooded; his lips swollen; his face flushed, and his hair madder than mad. He looked glorious.

“Me in the coat or you in the coat?”

“Either. Both.”

“Well, you have.” Sherlock settled it, their covering, around them. “Tell me something. It’s a bit personal.”

“Go on.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

“Is it true you were the last boy at Eton to have been given a Georgic?”

Seb laughed. “Me, copy out five hundred Latin hexameters? As if. I got someone to do it for me. Now, Cameron, on the other hand…”

Sherlock was still kissing him when Seb’s phone rang, the tone shrill in the very early-morning air. They looked at each other in surprise, and Seb shrugged, shifting them both until he could grab it from the floor. 

“Hi! What? Calm down. I can’t… What? Are you sure? And you’re okay?” He paused, listening, his eyes wide with amazement or worry and fixed on Sherlock.

“Yes, I do know. Of course I was, anyway. It’s all planned. Look, don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted. Leave it with me. It will go ahead. I guarantee it.”

He placed the phone on the edge of his desk and exhaled, staring at Sherlock. “Erm, mate.”

“What.”

“Something’s come up.”

Sherlock waited, watched. You never knew with this maddening man.

“How are you fixed for work?”

“Why? What was that call?”

“Just wondering if you fancied a little trip back to the old alma cliché?”

“Coll? Why?”

“Possible attempted murder. Which means there might have been two and we didn’t know.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean the food in Hall.”

“No. Although… No. It’s the chair.”

“What?”

“Not this one, dolt. The one they’re saying is cursed by the college ghost? Before it starts? The endowed professorship. The named chair. For heaven’s sake, Sherlock: the professorial chair?”

“You’re endowing…”

“Please. Don’t blame me. It’s a thing Pa started, the restricted investment, I suppose as a bribe, to get them to give me another go, myself having failed the penal collection – which wasn’t nearly as much fun as it doesn’t sound. I took it over a few years ago, well, Alli nagged me into it, to put a rocket under it. You know how slow they are. It’s taken ages, but the Chamberlyn-Wilkes-William Professor of Applied Mathematics is about to be announced and inaugurated and –”

Sherlock was trying not to laugh as he kissed Seb, because this name and this chair, managing to slyly involve all the people Seb loved most, was just so…

“Sherlock! I’m trying to tell you about an attempted murder! That was Chris, you remember him, loved Radiohead, and about to be invested by default after one candidate died on holiday, presumed heart attack and drowning while swimming, and the other was run over and killed here in London. And now he says he thinks someone just tried to kill him. But he didn’t see anyone, so it must have been the bloody ghost tried to push him off the chapel tower.”

“What a very Oxonian attempted murder.” Sherlock’s heart beat a little faster.

“Umm. And very shades of _Scooby-Doo_. In which case, bags me Freddy. Literally. Or Daphne. Hmm. That ascot vs. the purple tights… Oh, I can’t choose. Don’t make me. Well. I’ve got leave. I have to be there for the final details before the inauguration anyway, so…”

“So what?” Sherlock wasn’t sure he was going to like what was coming.

“Well, they’ll be expecting me and Alli. No; listen. I go, posing as a nice-but-dim-and-heartbroken divorcé to lure them into a false sense of security; you’re there to sort out your doctoral supervision and –”

“Lots of staircase creeping?” They both grinned. “But seriously, Seb, we might need the police, in the shape of the dishiest DI in the Met in on this. Albeit unofficially. He’ll do it – he owes us so big for sorting out that drugs case.” Sherlock’s grin was bigger: he’d just caught up to the plural pronouns he was thinking in.

“Indeed.” Seb’s smirk said he’d caught it too. And loved it. “But that’s perfect! He can be an American staying in the college – they’ve started renting out rooms, you know, ghastly business – researching into…genealogy! His family tree. On his mother’s side. Alli will have to be there for the ceremony anyway: the principal’s always had the hots for her. Remember how she got herself a set of rooms? And my aged parents love her so. Do you know Ma still gets her group to pray for us to get back together? Oh, and I rather think I’ll have a somewhat unconventional South African PA/chauffeur.”

“Who I suppose you’re sending now, to look after Chris Paranoid Android.” Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

“Sherlock. Someone’s trying to stop this professorship, maybe because of me. No one messes with my stuff. This is well out of order.” 

Sherlock took a look at Seb’s face. He could see Seb would be doing this, with or without him. 

“Sebastian Wilkes. Has anyone ever told you you give the best engagement presents?” he whispered, right into Seb’s ear.

“Oh. That’s…good.” Seb’s grin was bright and loud and proud.

“So. Back to the old Cliché Mater.”

“Umm. Full Monty – entire weekend given over to thank-you drinks and dinner, then chapel service, inauguration and maiden lecture, concert and Formal Hall. And possibly another attempt at murder.” 

“Just your typical Gory Night then. Well, I’m in. Of course. As if!”

And their kiss was eventually interrupted by the whir of vacuum cleaners outside and the calls of the cleaning team, providing a soundtrack as the two scrambled to get dressed and look as if they hadn’t been celebrating by screwing for hours and eating crisps in the vibrating chair in a luxurious office of a City bank. Because that wouldn’t be very suitable behaviour for the head of the trading floor and the world’s only consulting detective, would it?

 

Stay tuned for _The Life Pursuit_!


End file.
